r-NRLF 


The  Heart  of  Childhood 


EDITED   BY 
WILLIAM   DEAN    HOWELLS 

AND 
HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN 


Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 

New  York  and  London 


Copyright,  1891,  1894,  1902,  1904,  1905,  1906,  by 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


ANNIE   WEBSTER   NOEL 

THE   FIRST   PUSSY-WILLOWS 

MARIE   MANNING 

THE   TRUCE 

ETHEL   SIGSBEE   SMALL 

JET  AT   TEN 

MAY   KELSEY   CHAMPION 

AN  UNSKILLED  LABORER 

ALICE   MAcGOWAN 

A   DOLL 

GRACE   LATHROP   COLLIN 

THE  SEEDS  OF  TIME 

ANNIE  HAMILTON  DONNELL 

THE  FEEL  DOLL 

ROY  ROLFE  GILSON 

THE    WIND    OF    DREAMS 

WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

THE  AMIGO 

ELIZABETH  JORDAN    , 
ADELINE  THURSTON,  POETESS 

J.  ELWIN  SMITH 

"DAD'S  GRAVE" 

CONSTANCE   FENIMORE 
WOOLSON 

A   TRANSPLANTED  BOY 

GEORGE  HEATH 

ZAN  ZOO 


274307 


Introduction 


THE  child's  story  which  is  not  a  story 
for  children  but  for  their  elders  is  by 
no  means  an  invention  of  the  contrib 
utors  to  Harper  &  Brothers'  periodicals. 
Fine  work,  tender  and  true,  has  been 
done  heretofore  by  Mark  Twain,  by  Mr. 
T.  B.  Aldrich,  by  Mr.  J.  M.  Barrie,  not 
to  mention  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  and 
others  in  other  languages  than  English. 
But  it  seems  to  us  that  the  new  school 
of  briefer  fictionists,  who  have  done  so 
much  that  is  of  fresh  truth  and  novel 
impulse  in  other  sorts,  have  got  rather  a 
new  turn  in  the  heart  of  childhood. 
Children  like  to  be  taken  seriously,  and 
though  grown-up  people  cannot  take  them 
quite  so  seriously  as  children  would  like, 
yet  the  loving  irony  of  these  writers  is 
such  as  the  children  would  not  easily  find 
them  out  in.  They  employ  a  closer  and 
subtler  psychology  in  the  study  of  those 
little  souls  than  that  known  to  earlier 


iv  Introduction 

writers,  and  even  in  the  smiles  which 
they  cannot  forbear  there  is  the  wistful- 
ness,  the  self-pity  for  the  things  they 
have  themselves  outlived,  which  the 
reader  cannot  fail  to  find  very  winning. 
For  the  wide  and  comprehensive  range 
of  their  qualities  and  characters  the 
whole  intercontrasting  group  of  sketches 
here  assembled  is  admirable.  It  is  beau 
tiful  how  the  illusion  of  reality  in  the 
child's  world  is  respected  in  all  of  them, 
as  if  their  authors  were  always  writing 
from  a  consciousness  that 

"Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy/5 

but  were  not  alarmed  by  occasional  adum 
brations  apparently  from  another  place. 

W.  D.  H. 


The  First  Ptissy-Willows 

BY  ANNIE   WEBSTER  NOEL 

COMING  home  from  school  Ruth 
always  walked  slowly  until  she 
heard  some  one  behind  her,  when 
she  quickened  her  steps  a  little.  It  was 
Richard — he  always  caught  up  at  just 
the  same  place,  being  a  boy.  (Boys  are 
rather  monotonous.) 

"  You  don't  know  who  my  best  girl  is," 
said  Richard,  one  day,  throwing  stones  at 
the  trees  as  they  walked  along. 

"  Is  it  Lucy  Stone  ?" 

His  disgust  was  intense.  "  Guess 
again,"  he  added,  tenderly.  "  She  looks 
like  you." 

"Is  it  my  sister?" 

"  N-aw !  There  it  is  on  that  sign,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  a  sign  in  a  vacant  lot. 

She  asked  every  letter  but  the  R.  Then 
all  of  a  sudden  she  began  to  run,  crying, 
gleefully,  "Oh,  I  know,  I  know!  It's 
Rose!" 


2  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Stupid !"  he  shouted  after  her.  "  It's 
you." 

But  she  was  skipping  far  down  the 
street,  her  braid  bobbing  behind  her,  and 
he  did  not  see  her  again  until  the  next 
day. 

"Who's  your  best  fellow?"  he  asked, 
eagerly,  as  he  caught  up.  (Boys  are 
monotonous.) 

"  His  name's  on  that  sign,  too." 

"Is  it  R?"  he  demanded. 

"  It's  on  that  line,"  she  admitted. 

"IsitR?" 

"  Yes,  it  is.    But  maybe  it  isn't  you." 

Why  did  she  treat  him  that  way? 
Well,  she  didn't  love  him.  Yet  he  was 
the  smartest  boy  in  the  school.  He  had 
brown  eyes  and  brown  hair  and  brown 
cheeks  with  just  a  dash  of  red  in  them. 
But  she  was  sure  she  did  not  love  him. 

They  had  a  composition  to  write.  It 
was  about  Longfellow,  and  the  teacher 
had  put  some  questions  on  the  board 
which  they  must  answer:  Where  was  he 
born?  Where  did  he  live?  For  what 
was  he  noted?  Tell  two  anecdotes  about 
him.  What  else  can  you  say  about  him  ? 

Richard  knew  all  about  him,  and  had 
reached  the  "  what  else  "  when,  stopping 
to  think,  he  caught  sight  of  Kuth  sitting 


The  First  Pussy-Willows        .  3 

at  her  desk.  Tears  rolled  slowly  down 
Ruth's  cheeks.  She  had  "been  looking 
round  "  while  the  teacher  had  been  telling 
them  about  Longfellow. 

.Those  tears  hurt  Richard  so  that  he 
trod  underfoot  every  law  of  boyhood  and 
met  Ruth  at  the  very  school  gate.  He 
told  her  where  Longfellow  lived,  and 
when;  where  he  was  born;  when  he  died; 
and  two  anecdotes.  And  then  she  agreed 
to  go  with  him  to  get  pussy-willows. 

Who  ever  saw  the  first  pussy-willows  in 
the  hands  of  a  grown-up?  The  children 
always  find  them  first.  There  is  some 
mysterious  bond  between  the  soft  little 
thing,  pushing  out  of  its  brown  shell,  and 
the  child-heart  beating  so  rapturously 
above  it;  the  same  soft  glow  suffuses  it 
and  the  child-cheek  against  which  it  is 
laid. 

That  day  was  spring.  The  next  day  a 
little  lame  boy  came  to  school.  (Some 
thing  happened  every  day  in  Ruth's 
school.) 

The  little  lame  boy's  name  was  John. 
He  had  been  sent  back  from  the  grade 
above,  as  he  could  not  keep  pace  with  the 
others.  Ruth,  glancing  at  the  dragging 
foot,  felt  the  cruelty  of  it.  Think  of  put 
ting  a  lame  boy  back ! 

This  was  Wednesday.     Ruth  had  cast 


4  Harper's  Novelettes 

a  pitying  glance  at  the  little  boy  as  he 
swung  himself  down  the  aisle  on  his 
crutches.  How  was  he  going  to  get  his 
composition  done  by  Friday,  when  he  was 
lame?  It  would  be  hard  enough  for  her. 
She  tucked  her  legs  under  the  seat.  She 
felt  terribly  ashamed  of  them.  They  were 
so  round  and  they  could  skip  so  fast. 

When  school  was  over  and  the  boys 
rushed  out  in  a  body  the  lame  boy  hob 
bled  slowly  down  the  stairs  alone.  Ruth 
walked  boldly  up  to  him. 

"  Do  you  know  about  Longfellow  ?"  she 
asked,  gently. 

"  No.    Tell  us,  won't  you  ?" 

And  Ruth  told  him  where  he  lived,  and 
when ;  where  he  was  born ;  when  he  died ; 
and  two  anecdotes — all  that  Richard  had 
told  her.  Her  own  composition  was  never 
written.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  given  it 
to  the  lame  boy.  She  heard  Richard's 
shout  as  he  raced  in  the  school  yard,  and 
she  resolved  never  to  speak  to  him  again, 
she  felt  so  sorry  for  John. 

All  unconscious  of  his  fate,  Richard 
succeeded  that  day  in  having  his  seat 
changed  so  that  he  sat  in  the  row  next  to 
Ruth.  He  pushed  ahead  of  the  other 
boys  as  they  all  trooped  in.  She  saw  him, 
but  did  not  look.  Presently  she  began  to 
write  a  note.  Not  behind  her  Geography, 


The  First  Pussy- Willows  5 

but  openly,  on  her  desk.  Richard's  heart 
beat  high.  He  remembered  the  day  they 
had  gone  for  pussy-willows;  he  remem 
bered  how  she  had  let  him  help  her  with 
her  composition ;  he  remembered  how  he 
had  asked  her  who  her  best  fellow  was. 
She  was  going  to  tell  him  now. 

She  folded  up  the  note  and  threw  it 
over  to  the  lame  boy.  She  never  would 
have  done  it  if  Richard  had  not  had  his 
seat  changed.  That  made  her  feel  so  sorry 
for  John. 

Still  Richard  did  not  understand.  It 
seemed  just  the  other  day  that  they  had 
found  the  pussy-willows. 

"  I  wa£  a  hundred  in  everything,  to 
day,"  he  said,  proudly,  as  he  met  her  on 
the  broad  board  walk  which  led  from  the 
school  door. 

She  turned  up  her  nose. 

He  resolved  never  to  look  at  a  lesson 
again  in  his  life;  and  taking  a  "start," 
he  ran  at  a  terrible  speed  past  her  and 
leaped  the  school  fence  without  touching 
it.  The  boys  all  closed  around  him  and 
they  made  for  the  ball-grounds. 

The  lame  boy  cannot  run  at  all.  He 
must  go  on  crutches  all  his  life.  All  his 
life  long ! 

But  did  she  love  him  enough  to  marry 
him?  Ruth  questioned  herself  as  she 


6  Harper's  Novelettes 

walked  slowly  home.  Well,  Richard  did 
n't  care,  anyway.  If  he  did  he  would 
catch  up  with  her  the  way  he  always  used 
to.  How  far,  far  away  those  days  seemed ! 
Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest,  and  the  grave 
is  not  its  goal.  That  was  in  one  of  their 
pieces.  And  if  he  chose  to  catch  up  with 
Lucy  Stone,  who  cared?  She  would  de 
vote  her  life  to  John — and  the  poor.  She 
would  make  the  world  happy. 

She  went  to,  school  early  the  next  morn 
ing  and  fixed  John's  desk,  before  any 
one  came.  She  waited  and  waited.  Was 
he  sick  ?  Was  he  dead  ?  At  the  last  min 
ute  the  boys  came  trooping  in,  and  with 
them  John. 

He  had  no  crutches !    He  ran ! 

Have  you  ever  felt  as  if  some  one  had 
come  along  and  given  the  steady  earth  a 
twirl — like  this  ?  round  and  round ! 

"  Ain't  you  going  to  be  lame  forever  ?" 
asked  Ruth. 

"Naw,"  he  said.  "I  just  fell  down 
stairs  and  hurt  my  leg  a  little." 

"I'll  help  you  with  your  lessons,"  she 
offered  at  recess.  (For  he  certainly  was 
pale.) 

"  Bother !"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  play," 
and  he  limped  clumsily  away  to  watch 
the  boys  running. 

Richard  won.    He  did  not  look  at  Ruth. 


The  First  Pussy-Willows          7 

He  looked  at  Lucy  Stone.  And  that  day 
he  had  his  seat  changed  back.  Ruth 
wrote  a  note  to  John.  She  was  going  to 
show  Richard  she  didn't  care.  As  the 
note  flew  across  the  aisle  the  teacher 
turned.  She  came  and  picked  it  up. 
Ruth's  heart  seemed  to  turn  to  stone. 

"  Who  wrote  this  note  ?" 

There  was  a  deep  silence  in  the  room. 

"  The  boy  who  wrote  this  note  stand 
up,  or  I  shall  read  it  aloud  before  the 
whole  school." 

Ruth  trembled.  Her  heart  beat  so  loud 
she  knew  they  would  hear. 

"I  shall  read  it  aloud,  then,"  said  the 
teacher,  unfolding  it.  Ruth  hid  her  face 
in  her  arms  on  the  desk.  How  much  can 
people  bear  and  not  die? 

Richard  rose  into  the  aisle. 

"  So  it's  yours,  is  it  ?"  said  the  teacher. 
He  was  made  to  stand  up  before  the  girls 
until  school  was  out,  the  note  in  his  out 
stretched  hand. 

He  was  laughed  at  now.  He  was 
shamed.  And  all  for  her.  She  longed  to 
stand  up  with  him  before  all  the  school 
— two  outcasts! 

After  school  he  did  not  even  look  at 
her.  He  spoke  to  Lucy  Stone  again. 
(That  made  the  third  time  he  had  spoken 
to  her.) 


8  Harper's  Novelettes 

Ruth  never  looked  at  the  lame  boy 
again.  She  would  never  look  at  Richard 
again,  she  said  to  herself.  She  walked 
away  from  school  slowly,  hoping  he  would 
catch  up.  She  looked  at  the  things  in 
the  fancy-store  window,  just  glancing 
around  once  in  a  while.  Perhaps  the 
boys  would  not  let  him  go  home.  They 
were  pointing  their  fingers  at  him  and 
saying,  "  S — s — shame !" 

How  could  she  keep  on  going  to 
school  if  he  never  spoke  to  her?  She 
remembered  how  the  girls  had  giggled 
as  he  stood  there,  and  her  fists  dou 
bled  up.  "  I  will  speak  first,"  she  deter 
mined. 

It  was  just  as  well,  perhaps,  that  she 
hadn't  lingered  in  the  school  yard.  The 
little  boys  never  wasted  their  energies  in 
remembering  anything  that  happened  in 
school.  Richard  had  won  at  marbles,  and 
passing  by  Lucy  Stone,  he  had  dropped 
his  best  two  marbles  for  her.  At  last  he 
started  for  home.  He  caught  up  with 
Ruth.  (Are  boys  really  monotonous?) 

"Let's  make  up,  Ruthie,"  he  cried, 
gayly. 

She  felt  hurt.  How  could  he  be  so 
happy  when  a  life  of  shame  lay  before 
them? 

" Let's,  Ruthie.    Come  on.    Do!" 


The  First  Pussy-Willows  9 

"  Will  you  promise  never  to  speak  to 
Lucy  Stone  again  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  to  Mary  Steiner?" 

"  Upon  my  honor." 

That  sounded  very  nice.  Kuth  tried 
to  think  of  something  else  she  could  make 
him  do,  but  she  could  think  of  nothing. 

They  went  and  sat  in  the  big  swing 
which  hangs  from  the  apple-tree  in  Ruth's 
garden.  He  gave  her  his  piece  of  carbon 
and  all  the  marbles  he  had  left,  and  she 
agreed  to  go  get  pussy-willows  again. 
They  were  so  happy  that  she  wondered 
why  boys  ever  quarrelled. 


The  Truce 

BY  MARIE   MANNING 

A  I?  this  late  date,  it  is  difficult  to  de 
termine   with    any   degree   of   cer 
tainty   the   exact    causes   that    in 
vested  in  Grace  Marchmont  the  dictator 
ship  of  that  portion  of  the  neighborhood 
that  was  feminine  and  had  not  yet  arrived 
at  the  years  of  discretion.     But  having 
once  obtained  control,  by  either  force  or 
strategy,  she  held  the  reins  of  government 
with  no  uncertain  hand. 

Grace  shared  the  common  lot  of  all 
who  wear  the  mantle  of  authority;  she 
had  her  good  advisers  and  bad,  her  friends 
and  enemies,  her  stanch  supporters  and 
sycophants;  and  she  had  privileges,  too, 
that  were  part  of  the  royal  prerogative, 
and  that  went  a  long  way  towards  miti 
gating  the  anxieties  of  office.  One  of 
these  was  the  absolute  confidence  reposed 
in  her  regarding  the  amount  of  proffered 
delicacy  she  was  to  consume  by  that  fixed 
standard  of  infantile  hospitality  known 


The  Truce  n 

as  a  "bite."  No  guardian  thumb  accom 
panied  the  pickle  or  stick  of  candy  offered 
to  the  chieftainess  for  her  refreshment. 
The  treat  was  put  into  the  royal  hands 
without  thumb  or  restriction,  and  the 
chieftainess,  after  biting  off  what  good 
taste  and  appetite  prompted,  returned  the 
delicacy  to  the  frequently  anxious  sub 
ject  with  a  "  thanks." 

It  was,  naturally,  Grace  Marchmont 
who,  converting  her  own  door-step  into 
a  chair  of  state,  issued  therefrom  procla 
mations  establishing  the  social  status 
of  all  newcomers.  Now  it  happened 
that'  into  the  corner  house,  which  was 
the  handsomest  in  the  block,  there  had 
recently  moved  a  family  by  the  name  of 
Tower,  which  numbered  among  its  mem 
bers  two  little  girls,  Alice  and  Eva. 
There  was  absolutely  no  reason,  according 
to  the  grown-up  tribunal,  why  the  Tower 
girls  should  not,  at  once,  have  taken  their 
places  in  the  infantile  aristocracy  of  the 
neighborhood.  But  the  Towers,  from  at 
first  hanging  miserably  to  the  fringe  of 
society,  were  gradually  shoved  farther  and 
farther  away,  till  at  last  they  found  them 
selves  beyond  the  Rubicon  branded  by  the 
epithet  "  common." 

Not  one  of  the  little  girls  who  daily 
returned  to  the  neighborly  inquisition 


12  Harper's  Novelettes 

could  tell  just  how  it  was  that  the  Towers 
came  to  be  the  object  of  their  opprobrium. 
Some  one's  aunt — ensconced  behind  a 
shutter — had  said,  on  the  day  of  the 
Tower  moving,  that  a  certain  blue  velvet 
sofa  was  not  just  what  might  have  been 
expected  of  people  moving  into  "  our " 
neighborhood.  And  the  listening  niece 
had  reported  the  verdict,  which  had  then 
been  discussed,  exaggerated,  turned,  twist 
ed,  and  finally  acted  upon,  with  the  re 
sultant  isolation  of  the  Tower  children 
as  social  pariahs. 

The  Towers,  be  it  said  to  their  credit, 
never  tried  to  turn  the  tide  of  universal 
disapprobation.  For  two  or  three  eve 
nings  they  hung  about  the  enemy's 
porch,  bearing  their  dolls  in  their  arms, 
in  the  hope  that  friendly  overtures 
might  begin  through  common  maternal 
interests.  But  though  the  older  resi 
dents  would  have  been  glad  to  know  the 
names,  at  least,  of  these  strangely  beauti 
ful  dolls,  there  was  the  fact  of  the  blue 
sofa  barring  the  way  to  friendly  inter 
course.  At  first  the  little  Towers,  at 
tributing  the  silence  to  shyness,  and  for 
lorn  and  homesick  for  the  old  neighbor 
hood  where  they  had  been  a  power,  lin 
gered,  hopeful  and  conspicuous,  on  the 
outskirts  of  this  new  social  centre.  But 


The  Truce  13 

when,  one  evening,  they  saw  the  abori 
gines  whisper  and  giggle  among  them 
selves  significantly,  they  indulged  no 
further  hopes  of  friendship,  and  depart 
ed  with  the  dolls  hugged  close  for  com 
fort. 

After  this,  feminine  hostilities  con 
tinued,  day  by  day,  in  a  species  of  gueril 
la  warfare;  no  open  engagement  was 
fought,  but  the  natives,  with  diabolical 
ingenuity,  indulged  in  every  species  of 
persecution  that  was  capable  of  escaping 
the  censorship  of  parents  and  nurses, 
and  soon  the  infantile  population  of  the 
neighborhood  found  itself  convulsed  by 
a  struggle  none  the  less  severe  because 
its  methods  were  covert  and  subtle. 

For  these  little  girls  belonged  to  what 
are  technically  known  as  "  nice "  fam 
ilies,  and  did  not  dare  exhibit  their 
malevolence  with  the  frankness  of  those 
children  whose  social  position  makes 
fewer  demands  in  the  way  of  convention 
and  decorum.  In  charge  of  their  elders 
or  nurses  they  would  walk  past  the  Tower 
house  with  demure  sedateness,  scarcely 
glancing  at  the  two  little  white  figures 
perched  in  lonesome  dignity  on  the 
porch;  then,  if  there  was  no  older  Tower 
in  sight,  the  vindictive  native  would  look 
back,  "make  a  face"  at  the  loathed  set- 


14  Harper's  Novelettes 

tiers,  and  proceed  on  her  way  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

But  the  day  of  reckoning  came  and 
with  it  the  fall  of  the  chieftainess. 
While  her  word  was  law  among  her 
ladies-in-waiting,  she  occupied  a  posi 
tion  ahout  her  own  back  premises  of  no 
more  importance  than  that  of  any  other 
child.  She  would  have  liked  to  lord  it 
over  the  servants,  and  receive  delicacies 
from  the  cook  with  the  same  lack  of 
thumb  and  restriction  that  marked  the 
offerings  of  the  faithful.  In  which  case 
it  is  more  than  probable  that  the  bite 
would  have  been  taken  with  no  restrain 
ing  sense  of  noblesse  oblige.  But  she 
possessed  not  the  smallest  sovereignty 
over  these  dominions,  and  was  per 
emptorily  ordered  from  the  kitchen  on 
wash-day,  grudgingly  given  a  bit  of 
dough  on  baking-day,  and,  subject  to  the 
temper  of  the  cook,  permitted  to  scrape 
the  bowl  when  cakes  were  in  progress. 

Between  the  chieftainess  and  Cindy, 
the  colored  housemaid,  something  ap 
proaching  an  understanding  existed; 
due,  no  doubt,  to  the  fact  that  both  were 
outrageously  bullied  by  Liza,  the  cook. 
Grace  was  sharpening  a  pencil  with  a 
silver  dinner-knife  one  morning  when 
Cindy  came  in  from  the  grocery-store 


The  Truce  15 

where  all  the  families  of  the  neighbor 
hood  traded,  with  news  that  made  the 
chief tainess  bitterly  regret  the  late  hos 
tility  towards  the  Towers. 

"  Huceum  you-all  to  gitter  qua'lin'  wif 
dem  Tower  chillun?  You-all  done  miss 
it  dis  time,  sho.  Dey's  gwinter  give  er 
party  an'  dar  gal  wuz  upter  de  sto'  dis 
mo'nin'  buyin'  razzins,  an'  nuts,  an'  aigs 
fo'  de  cakes;  dey  gwinter  hev  ten  kin's 
er  cake,  dey  gal  tole  me,  an'  ice-cream, 
all  kin's,  an'  ?mos'  eve'yt'ing  else,  I 
raikon,  an'  she  say  dar  ain't  one  chile 
in  dish  yere  neighborhood  gwinter  git 
ast,  kase  you-all  done  ack  so  mean  to 
dem  Towerses,  an'  she  say  dere  maw  am 
plumb  tickle  dat  you-all  don'  play  wif 
her  chillun.  Dere  maw  say  you-all  ain't 
'sirable  'quaintances — dat's  wot  she  say, 
— you-all  ain't  'sirable  'quaintances,"  re 
peated  Cindy,  unable  to  leave  the  mouth- 
filling  words  alone  after  one  repetition. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  to  their  old  party — 
we  none  of  us  would  go  to  their  old 
party,  if  they  begged  us,"  announced 
the  chieftainess,  in  accents  strongly 
tinctured  with  regret. 

"  Dat's  easy  talkin',  w'en  none  of  you- 
all's  gwinter  git  ast.  Dere  gal  say  to 
me  she  gotter  hurry  'kase  she  wuz  spected 
ter  'sist  in  makin'  de  angel-cake." 


1 6  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Are  they  going  to  have  angel-cake?" 
asked  the  chieftainess,  slicing  the  point 
off  the  pencil  with  one  bitterly  reckless 
stroke. 

"Dey  sutney  is,"  said  Cindy,  her 
black  eyes  rolling  with  mischief. 

"  I  hate  angel-cake.    I  wouldn't  eat  it." 

"  Hit  doan'  look  datter  way  w'en  you- 
all  gitten  er  chance  ter  eat  any." 

"  I'm  going  out  to  play,"  announced 
the  chieftainess  with  the  habitual  free 
dom  of  action  that  indicated  there  were 
no  feminine  relatives  to  be  consulted. 
And  she  put  on  her  best  hat,  for  the  same 
reason,  and  called  together  the  clan. 

Her  news  was  received  stoically;  in 
truth,  it  was  no  news  at  all.  Through 
the  same  medium  of  communication  that 
had  already  put  the  chieftainess  in  pos 
session  of  the  facts,  namely,  that  of  the 
domestics  who  met  and  gossiped  at  the 
store,  infantile  circles  knew  all  about  the 
prospective  party  at  the  Towers's. 

"  I  never  had  anything  against  the 
Towers,"  announced  a  little  girl  whose 
long  yellow  plaits  were  the  envy  of  all 
her  companions. 

"Me  neither,"  chimed  in  the  one 
whose  aunt  had  settled  the  social  status 
of  the  Towers  by  her  comment  on  the 
blue  sofa. 


The  Trace  17 

"Why  didn't  you  like  'em,  Grace?" 
And  this  interrogation  voiced  the  senti 
ment  of  the  crowd  in  subtly  attributing 
the  unfriendly  attitude  taken  by  the 
older  residents  to  the  influence  of  the 
chieftainess. 

"Yes,  'twas  Grace  that  didn't  like 
'em." 

"  She  never  did  like  'em." 

"  We  never  had  anything  against  'em," 
— came,  successively,  from  these  little 
girls  whom  Grace  had  always  considered 
her  stan chest  allies. 

The  growing  lack  of  loyalty  smote  the 
trained  ear  of  the  chieftainess.  She  had 
had  enough  experience  as  a  leader  to 
know  that  she  could  have  stemmed  the 
tide  by  turning  to  Lulu  Waite  with: 

"You  started  it  yourself  when  you 
said  that  your  aunt  said  that  their  blue 
velvet  sofa  was — impossible" 

But  the  chieftainess  was  too  hurt. 
Turning  on  them,  she  delivered  herself 
of  one  sentence  of  vitriolic  import — 
"I'm  sorry  you  don't  get  enough  good 
things  at  home," — and  turned  and  walked 
to  her  own  house  without  a  second  glance 
at  her  erstwhile  faithful  retainers. 

When  the  evening  of  the  Tower  party 
arrived,  the  old  residents,  to  a  man,  took 
to  their  individual  porches  and  rocked 


1 8  Harper's  Novelettes 

themselves  with  a  splendid  show  of  in 
difference  to  passing  events.  With  the 
first  gathering  shades  of  dusk,  they  had 
seen  Japanese  lanterns  begin  to  glow 
rosily  from  the  Tower  lawn,  and  a  striped 
red  and  white  tent  spring  into  being 
with  as  much  haste  and  mystery  as  if 
Aladdin's  lamp  had  been  in  cooperation. 
Believe  me,  the  old  residents  in  their 
rocking-chairs  were  having  a  very  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  they  had  seen 
Alice  and  Eva  Tower,  looking  like  beau 
tiful  Christmas  -  tree  fairies  in  their 
fluffy  little  white  skirts  and  crimped  hair, 
stroll  down  to  the  front  gate  to  meet 
their  guests.  The  old  residents  could 
see  that  these  came  in  bewildering  num 
bers,  some  carefully  alighting  from  fam 
ily  carriages,  and  some  picking  their 
way  along  the  street  with  ostentatious 
daintiness. 

When  the  sight  of  family  carriages 
discharging  their  lovely  burdens  and 
fairy  figures  hurrying  through  the  twi 
light  could  exact  no  further  tribute  of 
anguish  from  the  old  residents  because 
there  was  no  depth  of  wretchedness  they 
had  not  already  sounded,  they  forsook 
their  little  rocking-chairs  for  refreshment 
more  substantial  than  the  Dead  Sea  fruit 
of  observation  without  invitation. 


The  Trace  19 

At  this  point,  the  chieftainess,  who, 
from  the  security  of  her  own  porch,  had 
been  waiting  for  this  exodus  to  supper, 
went  into  the  house,  and  taking  a  newly 
wrapped  parcel  from  under  her  own 
bureau,  proceeded  to  examine  its  con 
tents.  At  first  glance  this  package  ap 
peared  to  contain  caramels,  wrapped 
neatly  and  exactly  in  oiled  tissue-paper. 
Ostensibly,  these  belonged  to  that  school 
of  confectionery  that  requires  first  a 
layer  of  chocolate,  then  one  of  cream 
filling,  then  another  of  chocolate,  the 
succulent  compound  being  fashioned  into 
perfect  cubes,  and  wrapped,  with  the  tri 
angular  ends  of  the  paper  beautifully 
folded  under. 

The  making  of  these  caramels  had  cost 
the  chieftainess  a  morning  and  after 
noon  of  the  most  arduous  labor,  not  to 
mention  several  encounters  with  the 
cook  incident  to  the  purloining  of  the 
necessary  kitchen  utensils.  But  as  she 
looked  at  them  now,  subtly,  deliciously 
enticing  as  they  were,  she  felt  that  her 
labors  had  indeed  been  repaid. 

Putting  the  package  under  her  arm, 
she  left  the  house  with  the  freedom  of 
a  man  of  the  world.  The  family  con 
sisted  of  the  chieftainess  and  her  father, 
and  neither  asked  questions  as  to  the 


20  Harper's  Novelettes 

comings  and  goings  of  the  other.  Skulk 
ing  in  the  shadows  cast  by  the  now 
hostile  porches  of  former  retainers,  the 
chieftainess  gained  the  unguarded  gate 
of  the  enemy  and  entered.  Brave  as  she 
was,  her  skin  rose  up  chill  and  prickly 
at  the  reckless  enterprise  on  which  she 
was  now  fairly  launched.  The  gathering 
darkness  seemed  to  hold  a  thousand  foes 
in  ambush;  the  very  flowers,  the  grass, 
the  gravelled  walks,  mocked  her  and 
threatened  to  call  out  the  news  of  her 
alien  presence.  The  overhanging  eaves 
of  the  porch  frowned  menacingly,  but 
she  forged  ahead,  white-lipped,  yet  un 
wavering. 

It  was  as  she  had  expected;  the  com 
pany  was  at  supper  and  the  hall  deserted 
'but  for  Uncle  Ben,  the  white-haired 
and  faithful  black  retainer  of  the  Tower 
family,  who  stood  within  the  door  wait 
ing  to  receive  belated  guests  and  those 
Puritanical  guardians  of  infant  revelry 
who  are  the  first  to  call  for  their  charges 
on  festal  occasions. 

"  Come  right  in,  little  missie,"  said 
Uncle  Ben,  opening  wide  the  screen  door. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  chieftainess, 
so  softly  that  the  deaf  old  man  had  to 
incline  his  cotton-boll  of  a  head  to  hear 
her.  "I  didn't  come  to  go  to  the  party, 


The  Truce  21 

but  my  ma  sent  these  with  her  compli 
ments." 

"Who's  yo'  ma,  honey?" 

She  hesitated.  Like  all  criminals,  she 
had  forgotten  to  plan  one  little  detail 
of  her  crime.  "  Her  name  is — her  name 
is — Mrs.  Jackson," — and  she  flew  down 
the  porch  and  out  of  the  gate  as  if  a 
thousand  witches  were  in  pursuit. 

Now  the  Towers  had  a  grandmother, 
a  peace-loving  and  kindly  old  lady  who 
regarded  with  grief  the  infant  factions 
that  rent  the  neighborhood.  She  had 
been  sitting  in  the  darkened  library  and 
heard  the  conversation  that  accompanied 
the  apocryphal  Mrs.  Jackson's  donation. 
Not  recalling  a  Mrs.  Jackson  among 
their  acquaintances,  she  had  gone  to  the 
window  to  have  a  look  at  Mrs.  Jackson's 
little  daughter,  and  there  recognized  the 
little  girl  who  had  been  so  unfriendly 
to  her  cherubic  grandchildren. 

"  So  she  had  come  to  make  up — and 
very  properly,  since  she  was  the  primary 
offender.  How  delicate  for  her  to  run 
away  so  quickly.  Since  she  had  not  been 
invited  to  the  party,  her  presence  would 
have  been  necessarily  a  trifle  embarrass 
ing." 

So  Grandma  Tower  took  the  "cara 
mels,"  and  told  her  daughter-in-law  that 


22  Harper's  Novelettes 

they  represented  a  flag  of  truce,  and  the 
company  helped  itself  to  the  peace  offer 
ing! 

"I  don't  like  'em!  Oh!  Sp— th— 
th!  They're  dirt!  Dirt  and  starch! 
Sp — th — th!  Oh,  I  want  to  go  home! 
Oh,  boo — hoo — hoo!" 

Mrs.  Tower,  wildly  promising  to  per 
form  miracles  with  soap  and  water,  led 
the  weeping  guests  to  the  bath-room. 
The  spirit  of  the  party  began  to  flicker 
out,  as  the  chieftainess  had  foreseen  it 
would,  in  an  atmosphere  of  disappoint 
ment  and  bitter  personal  grievance. 

But  the  chieftainess  had  reckoned 
without  Mr.  Tower  and  his  administra 
tive  talents.  This  resourceful  host 
turned  the  entire  affair  into  a  joke  and 
proposed  that  every  one  should  drown 
the  noxious  flavor  of  the  peace  caramels 
in  brimming  beakers  of  lemonade.  The 
motion  was  carried,  and  when  Mrs. 
Tower  returned  with  a  somewhat  damp 
and  chastened  group  she  saw  that  the 
foundering  party  had  begun  to  recover 
itself. 

"  Start  up  some  rattling-good  dance 
music, — and  now  who  will  be  my  partner 
for  the  lancers?"  And  soon  the  party 
was  swinging  in  a  hilarious  rhythm. 

Alice    Tower,    however,    slipped    away 


The  Trace  23 

from  the  dancers  to  the  front  porch, 
where  she  was  presently  joined  by  Eva 
and  one  or  two  tried  friends,  who  dis 
cussed  the  strategic  coup  of  the  enemy, 
and  ways  and  means  by  which  it  should 
be  promptly  avenged.  From  time  to  time 
the  war -office  on  the  porch  was  re- 
enforced  by  those  who  were  in  the  plot, 
and  whispered  councils  continued. 

Within,  Dodsworth's  Lancers  wrought 
their  accustomed  sorcery,  and  little  feet 
tripped  in  time  with  the  rhythmic  meas 
ure.  Without,  skulked  the  spirit  of  war, 
grim,  ominous.  History  was  repeating 
herself.  Not  since  the  Duchess  of  Rich 
mond's  ball  on  the  eve  of  Waterloo  had 
battle  and  revelry  coquetted  with  such 
sardonic  humor. 

With  the  furtive  caution  of  Indians, 
the  council  on  the  front  steps  disinte 
grated.  "  Broke  up  "  fails  to  express  the 
silent,  catlike  separation  of  the  con 
spirators.  First  one  little  girl  would 
slip  away  from  the  group  and  dart 
through  the  gate.  Those  left  behind 
would  chatter  a  little  louder  so  that  the 
single  desertion  could  not  be  detected 
by  any  adult  suspicious  enough  to  have 
one  ear  on  the  alert.  Then  another 
would  slip  away,  and  the  babel  of  tongues 
would  be  raised  a  tone  with  each  de- 


24  Harper's  Novelettes 

parture,  so  that  the  diminishing  council 
of  war  made  an  ever-increasing  cres 
cendo  of  sound  in  proportion  as  it 
dwindled. 

Finally,  all  had  departed  but  one 
trusty  conspirator,  who  stamped  up  and 
down  the  porch,  holding  animated  con 
versation  with  herself,  laughing  stagily, 
and  otherwise  fulfilling  the  commands 
of  the  war-office  to  "  Make  as  much 
noise  as  all  of  us  put  together  till  we 
come  back." 

The  conspirators,  reconnoitring  on  the 
sidewalk,  fell  into  line  and,  headed  by 
Alice  Tower,  began  to  march  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  chieftainess's  stronghold. 
They  walked  single  file,  numbering  in 
all  eleven  calm,  determined  souls,  seek 
ing  redress. 

The  chieftainess,  after  the  deadly  in 
sult  to  her  enemies,  had  again  repaired 
to  her  own  porch,  where  she  sat  and 
rocked  herself  in  triumph.  Alone,  un 
aided,  she  had  entered  the  fortress  of  the 
enemy,  bearing  in  her  hand  the  instru 
ment  of  their  shame  and  confusion.  Her 
pleasant  reflections  were  suddenly  ar 
rested,  however,  by  a  dread  phenomenon 
that  wound  its  way  out  of  the  twilight 
and  down  the  peaceful  street.  The 
gathering  darkness  prevented  her  from 


The  Trace  25 

making  out  more  than  its  frightful  out 
line,  but  as  it  came  nearer  it  seemed  to 
be  some  hideous  monster  crawling  to 
wards  her  house  on  myriads  of  legs.  She 
had  never  seen  anything  so  terrible,  not 
even  in  the  circus  posters  whose  pic 
tured  monstrosities  kept  her  awake  at 
night. 

Little  by  little  her  eyes  detected  a 
growing  familiarity  in  the  general  out 
line  of  the  monster.  She  made  out  that 
the  white  body  was  composed  of  a  single 
file  of  white  skirts,  and  that  the  legs — 
the  legs  that  had  so  terrified  her — were 
the  every-day  legs  of  the  Towers  and 
their  friends.  But  what  were  they  do 
ing,  heading  towards  her  house?  On 
they  came,  unlatching  her  front  gate, 
walking  up  her  front  lawn,  and  now  they 
had  begun  to  ascend  her  steps.  The 
heart  of  the  chieftainess  knocked  omi 
nously  against  her  ribs;  true,  she  had 
taken  these  very  liberties  with  their  gate, 
their  lawn,  their  front  steps,  but  now 
there  were  so  many  of  them, — it  wasn't 
fair.  To  her  terrified  soul  there  seemed 
to  be  hundreds  of  thousands  of  calm, 
stiffly  starched  white  figures  swarming 
up  her  steps  on  some  awful  errand.  She 
got  up  from  her  little  rocking-chair  and 
stood  with  her  back  fixed  rigidly  against 


26  Harper's  Novelettes 

her  own  door-bell.  They  should  not  ring 
it,  though  they  blast  her! 

"You-all  go  away  now,  right  quick, 
or  I'll  unchain  our  dog." 

"You-all  haven't  got  a  dog,"  said 
Alice  Tower.  "  We've  come  to  see  your 
father." 

"H-u-h!"  said  the  chieftainess,  but 
there  was  no  contempt  in  the  ejacula 
tion,  only  terror  lest  her  father,  who  was 
smoking  his  after-dinner  cigar  on  the 
back  porch,  should  hear  the  altercation 
through  the  open  doorways. 

The  parley  between  the  two  leaders 
continued,  the  chieftainess,  for  purely 
selfish  reasons,  urging  the  Tower  faction 
to  depart  in  peace,  though  endeavoring 
to  convince  them  that  her  advice  was 
purely  disinterested,  and  that  her  re 
tainers  stood  ready  awaiting  the  word 
from  her  to  slaughter  them  on  the  spot. 

The  leader  of  the  Tower  faction  stood 
firm  as  Gibraltar.  She  had  come  to  see 
Mr.  Marchmont,  and  did  not  intend  to 
leave  until  she  had  accomplished  her 
purpose.  Low  mutterings  broke  out  in 
the  ranks.  A  few  insubordinates  were 
for  walking  past  the  defenceless  sentry 
into  the  hall. 

The  clamor  grew  and  gradually  reach 
ed  the  ears  of  the  one  being  of  whom 


The  Truce  27 

the  chieftainess  stood  in  awe — her  fa 
ther.  He  came  forward  to  investigate, 
and  found  his  porch  swarming  with  lit 
tle  girls  all  eager  to  tell  of  some  outrage 
that  had  evidently  been  perpetrated  by 
his  daughter.  It  was  impossible  to 
weigh  the  evidence  with  those  excited 
children  all  talking  at  once.  Mr.  March- 
mont  decided  upon  the  happy  expedient 
of  inviting  the  rank  and  file  into  the 
back  garden  and  conferring  on  them  the 
freedom  of  the  peach-tree,  while  he  led 
the  way  to  the  library  with  Alice  and 
Grace. 

Unconscious  of  everything  but  her 
wrongs,  Alice  Tower  began  her  recital; 
but,  as  she  continued,  the  nervous  strain 
to  which  she  had  been  subjected  began 
to  subside  under  the  chilling  influence 
of  the  sombre  room  in  which  she  found 
herself.  There  were  rows  and  rows  of 
heavy  books  in  dull  bindings  that  emitted 
a  faint  musty  odor  unlike  anything  with 
which  she  was  familiar,  pompous  ma 
hogany  furniture  upholstered  in  black 
haircloth,  dull  rugs  on  the  polished  floor, 
and  a  tall  clock  that  ticked  ominously 
like  the  beating  of  a  giant  heart.  There 
was  not  a  single  light  or  attractive  thing 
anywhere  to  relieve  the  gloom  of  the 
place.  It  was  precisely  what  she  had 


28  Harper's  Novelettes 

imagined  a  haunted  house  would  be  like, 
only  infinitely  more  sombre.  She  looked 
first  at  the  absolutely  dignified  man  who 
listened  to  her  with  the  deference  he 
would  have  paid  to  her  mother;  and  then 
at  her  former  persecutor,  now  so  white 
and  cowering. 

How  different  it  was  from  her  own 
home,  where  toys  and  children's  belong 
ings  were  everywhere,  and  the  baby  was 
always  adding  to  the  wholesome  racket. 

Then  a  great  wave  of  pity  surged  up 
in  her  heart  for  her  old  enemy.  Perhaps 
children  who  had  no  brothers  and  sisters 
and  lived  in  houses  like  this  couldn't 
help  being  bad, — perhaps  they  could  not 
help  it.  The  recital  of  wrong  and  griev 
ance  slowed  down;  it  never  reached  the 
climax  of  the  mud  caramels.  "And — 
and — that's  all,"  she  feebly  concluded, 
when  it  reached  the  point  where  Grace 
sometimes  made  faces  at  them. 

The  chieftainess  looked  bewildered, 
then  cried  softly  as  one  who  is  ashamed 
of  her  tears. 

"I  am  sorry  my  little  daughter  has 
behaved  so  badly.  What  do  you  want 
done  about  it?"  His  voice  was  deep 
and  solemn,  not  unlike  the  ticking  of 
the  clock. 

The  chieftainess  turned  to  her  enemy 


The  Truce  29 

and  awaited  the  sentence,  with  eyes 
down  and  head  averted. 

"I  think,"  said  Alice,  sweetly,  "she 
ought  to  he  made  to  make  up  with  us 
and  we  all  to  be  real  good  friends." 

The  chieftainess  rose  pink-nosed  and 
penitent;  and  arm  in  arm  they  went  in 
search  of  the  invading  enemy  bivouacked 
under  the  peacL-tree. 


-Etat  Ten 

BY  ETHEL  SIGSBEE  SMALL 

IT  was  not  that  the  boy's  usual  state 
was  one  of  abject  dirtiness — though, 
I  regret  to  say,  small  credit  is  due 
him  for  the  fact, — but  there  was  at 
times  a  hasty  look  about  him,  an  un- 
conquered  twist  to  his  thatch  of  hair, 
a  chapped  condition  of  the  hands  that 
suggested  washing,  since  washing  must 
be,  but  no  time  spent  in  unnecessary 
wiping,  a  tilt  to  his  necktie,  a  rusty 
aspect  to  his  clothes — the  newest  of  them 
acquired  it  in  a  week, — and  perhaps, 
until  his  mother  saw  it,  an  area  of  darker 
hue  extending  backward  from  his  ears 
and  quite  at  variance  with  the  soap- 
scrubbed  territory  before  it. 

So  when  he  took  his  place  at  the 
dinner-table  one  evening  splendidly  ar 
rayed  in  a  spotless  collar,  red  tie,  and 
his  best  shirt,  and  when  his  head  shone 
with  a  glory  that  comes  only  with  hours 
of  brushing  and  frequent  wettings  of 


JEt&t  Ten  31 

the  brush,  it  was  but  natural  some  sen 
sation  should  be  produced. 

"Ah,  we  have  a  guest  to-night," 
remarked  the  big  brother,  bowing 
politely. 

"  If  Henry  would  only  always  look  like 
that/'  sighed  the  big  sister. 

"  Henry  washed  his  hands  wif  soap 
and  cleaned  his  finger  nails — I  sawed 
him!"  the  very  small  sister  testified, 
proudly.  Which  statement,  though  per 
haps  in  a  different  way,  produced  as 
great  an  impression  as  the  very  small 
sister  could  have  hoped  for. 

The  boy  was  disposing  of  his  soup 
noisily.  He  treated  all  alike  with  splen 
did  indifference.  When  he  had  finished 
he  pushed  back  his  plate  and  addressed 
his  mother: 

"  Mamma,  can  I  have  a  magic-lantern 
show  to-night?" 

"Don't  push  your  plate  back,  Henry 
dear.  A  magic-lantern  show — to-night? 
Why,  no,  dear,  of  course  not." 

"  Then  can  I  go  over  to  Willie's  ?" 

"  This  is  a  lesson  night,  dearie.  Mrs. 
Reed  will  not  want  you;  and  besides, 
you  have  your  own  lessons." 

"  Then  can  I  ask  Julie  Clayton  to  go 
to  the  matinee,  Saturday?" 

"Julie    Clayton?"    asked   the   mother, 

3 


32  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  the  big  brother  exclaimed,  dra 
matically: 

"  Ha-ha !  a  lady  in  the  case !  I  thought 
as  much!" 

"Who  is  Julie  Clayton,  dear?"  asked 
the  mother,  after  a  mental  roll-call  of 
all  the  boy's  friends. 

"  She's  a  girl  that's  visiting  Willie's 
sister."  The  boy  consumed  half  a  roll 
and  two  potatoes  with  the  dexterity  of 
a  conjurer. 

"  Why  don't  you  make  him  eat  bet 
ter?"  asked  the  big  sister,  plaintively. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  Julie  ? 
Is  she  a  nice  little  girl?"  went  on  the 
mother,  calmly.  She  was  too  used  to 
the  big  sister's  appeals  and  her  son's 
appetite  for  either  to  arouse  in  her  any 
violent  interest. 

"  This  morning — she's  fine,"  answered 
the  boy. 

"You  mean  you  only  met  her  this 
morning  ?" 

"  Good  work,"  said  the  big  brother, 
approvingly. 

"  I  just  saw  her,"  said  the  boy.  "  She 
sat  at  the  end  of  the  schoolroom  with 
Winnie." 

"  Can't  he  be  made  not  to  talk  with 
his  mouth  full?"  put  in  the  big  sister. 
"  He's  plenty  old  enough  to  eat  properly." 


JEtai  Ten  33 

"I  eat  ploperly,"  chirped  the  very 
small  sister. 

"Do  leave  the  boy  alone,  dear,"  said 
the  mother,  her  peaceful  feathers  ruffled 
for  an  instant ;  "  the  child  must  eat — 
he  is  hungry." 

"Can't  I  take  her,  mamma?"  The 
boy's  beautiful  unconsciousness  of  crit 
icism  was  not  assumed.  He  had  long 
ceased  to  be  affected  by  his  sister's  wail- 
ings,  if  indeed  they  had  ever  affected 
him.  He  was  eating  a  large  dinner  and 
enjoying  it.  "Can't  I?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know;— I  don't  know 
her  mother,"  was  the  answer,  hesitating 
ly  given. 

"  Aw — I  think  you  might,"  whined  the 
boy. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  it,  Edna  ?" 
The  mother  turned  to  the  big  sister. 

"  Oh,  let  him  go,"  said  the  big  sister ; 
"  but  you  might  impose  the  condition 
that  he  tries  to  improve  his  table  man 
ners." 

"What  do  you  think,  Dick?" 

The  big  brother  wrinkled  his  forehead. 
"  This  is  a  matter  of  most  vital  impor 
tance,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  I  should  not 
like  to  give  voice  to  an  opinion  rashly. 
I  must  first  render  myself  up  to  thought. 
With  your  permission  I  will  think  aloud. 


34  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  first  point  to  discover  is  if  the  lady 
is  a  fit  companion  for  our  darling.  It 
might  appear  from  our  darling's  own 
testimony  that  she  is  some  species  of 
siren,  or  at  least  closely  related  to  that 
family,  since  she  can  sit  at  one  end  of 
a  room,  and  without  so  much  as  address 
ing  our  son,  win  from  him  such  admira 
tion  as  to  inspire  him  to  perform  matters 
of  the  toilet  hitherto  unknown  to  him — 
as  proof  of  this  we  have  our  very  small 
sister's  testimony — and  to  make  him  wish 
to  waste  his  substance  in  providing  her 
pleasure. 

"  Having  proved  she  is  a  siren,  the 
questions  naturally  arise :  Are  sirens 
proper?  Are  they  admitted  into  the 
best  families?  A  point  in  the  lady's 
favor  is  that  thus  far  the  influence 
exerted  has  been  for  good.  To  test  the 
truth  of  this  we  have  but  to  contemplate 
the  victim.  But  is  not  any  influence 
dangerous?  Think  what  a  power  it  will 
become  when  she  holds  speech  with  our 
brother;  when  to  the  fascination  of  her 
mind  and  person — I  presume  she  is  a 
beauty — is  added  the  fatal  power  of 
propinquity!  And  now  suppose  she 
chooses  to  use  her  influence  for  ill — 
there  are  a  number  of  pretty  shady 
stories  afloat  about  these  ladies, — what 


Ten  35 

then?  I  ask  you — what  then?  Would 
it  be  wise  to  risk  our  birdie  with  one 
about  whose  ancestry  so  little  is  known, 
so  much  rumored?  If  we  could  ascer 
tain  absolutely  that  she  is  an  Episco 
palian,  but — 

"  Can  I  go,  mamma  ?  Please  let  me," 
whined  the  boy.  The  discourse  was  lost 
upon  him.  His  eyes  were  large  and 
anxious.  He  resented  only  the  inter 
ruption. 

"  Now,  Henry,  do  not  bother  me,"  said 
the  mother,  with  dignity.  "I  cannot 
tell  you  now;  I  will  think  it  over." 
Thinking  it  over  meant  asking  the 
grandmother's  opinion  in  private. 

The  boy  sighed  and  kicked  the  legs 
of  his  chair.  Mothers  were  queer — there 
was  no  use  talking..  Why  couldn't  she 
say  "yes,"  right  off?  He'd  say  "yes" 
if  he  were  a  mother.  Only  cost  a  dollar, 
anyway;  nothing  but  a  stingy  little  old 
dollar.  She  had  a  whole  pocketbook  full 
of  'em.  He  declined  dessert,  sulkily,  and 
derived  some  small  satisfaction  from  his 
mother's  pained  face  as  he  held  out 
against  her  urgings.  The  big  sister  said 
something  about  his  being  made  to  eat 
it,  and  he  left  the  table  with  dignity — • 
not  forgetting  to  knock  against  her  chair 
as  he  went  by.  Out  in  the  hall  the  hot 


36  Harper's  Novelettes 

tears  rose.  He  didn't  see  why  he  could 
n't  do  what  he  wanted  to.  Never  could 
do  a  thing.  She  wouldn't  tell  him  a 
word,  not  a  teensy  little  old  word — like 
"yes."  Here  Saturday  was  almost  here, 
and  it  was  such  a  bully  show — perform 
ing  bears  and  jugglers, — and  he  couldn't 
go !  Even  if  he  could,  he  didn't  know  it 
now.  What  was  the  use  of  anything  if 
you  couldn't  know  it  now?  Couldn't 
take  a  nice  girl  to  the  matinee.  If  he 
could  he  didn't  know  it.  Mothers  were 
queer  and — and — mean. 

A  hand  touched  his  arm. 

"  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  Henry, 
and  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not 
take  your  little  friend  to  the  theatre.  .  .  . 
It  was  very  naughty  of  you  to  knock 
against  your  sister's  chair.  You  must 
ask  her  to  forgive  you  before  you  go  to 
bed  to-night.  .  .  .  Your  dessert  is  wait 
ing  for  you  on  the  side-table.  I  told 
Kitty  to  put  a  little  pitcher  of  cream 
there,  too.  .  .  .  Brother  will  get  the 
tickets  for  you  to-morrow." 

The  boy  gave  a  great  whoop  of  joy 
and  ran  off  down  the  hall.  Then  he  came 
back  and  rubbed  up  against  his  mother's 
arm  and  asked  her  how  she  felt. 

Mothers  were  all  right,  he  reflected, 
over  generous  spoonfuls  of  pudding  deli- 


JEtat  Ten  37 

ciously  mingled  with  cream;  and  he 
would  ask  his  sister  to  forgive  him ; 
and,  gee!  Kitty  did  make  good  pud 
ding — he  wished  he  had  another  plate 
ful. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  morning  that 
two  joy-dispelling  thoughts — the  one  in 
sinuated  by  the  big  brother,  the  second 
the  outcome  of.  the  first — entered  the 
Eden  of  the  boy's  mind.  Perhaps  Julie 
Clayton  might  not  want  to  go  to  the 
matinee,  and  if  she  did,  perhaps  her 
mother  would  not  let  her.  The  first  dif 
ficulty  was  more  easily  disposed  of  than 
the  second.  The  boy  could  scarcely 
grasp  an  idea  which  admitted  of  any 
one's  declining  to  look  upon  performing 
bears  and  jugglers.  But  the  second  was 
insurmountable.  It  was  a  little  wa<y 
mothers  had — this  not  letting  fellows  go 
places;  and  he  supposed  it  was  the  same 
when  the  fellow  was  a  girl.  All  at  once 
happiness  departed.  He  intended  to  ask 
Julie  Clayton  to  go  to  the  theatre,  but 
he  persuaded  himself  there  was  no 
hurry  about  it.  That  he  knew  himself 
a  coward  in  no  wise  helped  him.  He 
pleaded  "  queer  feelings "  and  stayed 
home  from  school. 

Before  luncheon-time  he  sincerely  re- 


38  Harper's  Novelettes 

gretted  that  he  had  not  gone,  extended 
his  invitation,  and  had  it  over  with. 
At  luncheon  his  mother  proposed  he 
should  go  for  the  afternoon  session  and 
the  queer  feelings  returned,  threefold. 
With  eloquence  he  analyzed  his  symp 
toms  and  dwelt  pessimistically  on  proba 
ble  consequences  if  he  ventured  out  into 
the  air.  After  luncheon  he  retired  to 
the  library  and  sat,  grave-eyed  and 
gloomy,  revolving  the  situation.  At 
three  o'clock  he  would  go  over  to  the 
Reeds'  and  ask  her.  No,  he  thought 
he'd  write  a  letter.  No,  that  took  too 
long;  he'd  go  over  after  dinner.  No, 
he'd  wait  and  go  to-morrow.  He  had 
just  about  decided  to  send  his  mother 
as  proxy,  when  the  maid  ushered  two 
callers  into  his  presence. 

They  entered  softly  with  feminine 
rustle.  The  one  in  advance  was  allur 
ingly  pretty,  and  flirted  her  skirts  as  she 
came,  with  inborn  coquetry.  The  one 
behind  walked  stolidly,  eyes  to  the  front, 
head  up,  like  a  fat  little  soldier.  She 
was  a  plain  little  girl,  and  as  noticeably 
lacked  airs  and  graces  as  the  other  over 
flowed  with  them.  Confidently  the  pret 
ty  girl  advanced;  unquestioning,  the 
plainer  one  followed.  When  the  pretty 
girl  stopped  she  stopped  too,  as  if 


JEtat  Ten  39 

"Halt!"  had  been  ordered.  Their  des 
tination  was  the  boy. 

"We've  come  to  see  you,"  said  th« 
pretty  one,  brightly.  "  This  is  Julie — 
my  cousin  Julie.  She's  visiting  me. 
She's  eight." 

Julie  said  nothing. 

"  I've  got  some  animal  pictures,"  said 
the  boy.  He  pulled  a  book  down  from 
a  shelf  and  the  three  sat  in  a  row  on 
the  sofa.  "  That's  a  tiger,"  explained 
the  boy,  "and  that's  a  bear,  and  that's 
an  elephant.  Any  one  of  them  could  eat 
you  up."  The  ladies  manifested  a  polite 
interest.  The  portrait  of  a  large  and 
thrillingly  ferocious  grizzly  gave  the  boy 
a  sudden  inspiration.  "  I  know  where 
they  have  bears,  right  in  this  town,"  he 
volunteered. 

"Oh,  what  a  story!"  laughed  Winnie, 
the  pretty  girl. 

"Yes,  I  do — at  the  vaudeville  this 
week.  And  I'm  going,  and  take  some 
body  with  me — a  girl." 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Winnie,  eagerly. 
"Me?" 

"No,"  said  the  boy.  He  looked  hard 
at  the  lady  on  his  right.  The  lady  on 
his  right  dropped  her  eyes;  the  lady  on 
his  left  looked  disappointed.  "  I'm  going 
to  take  you"  said  the  boy;  then  his  fears 


40  Harper's  Novelettes 

returning-,  he  added,  wistfully,  "  if  you 
want  to  go,  and  if  your  mother  will 
let  you." 

"  Her  mother  isn't  here,"  said  Winnie. 
"My  mother  takes  care  of  her  while 
she's  visiting  me.  But  I'm  sure  mamma 
won't  mind." 

The  boy  glowed.  Nothing  now  re 
mained  but  to  win  the  consent  of  the 
lady. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  ?"  he  asked. 

The  lady  on  his  right  slipped  down 
from  the  sofa.  She  drew  up  one  shoul 
der  and  laid  her  cheek  on  it.  Then  she 
turned,  very  slowly,  until  a  row  of  brown 
buttons  and  a  small,  tight  pigtail  faced 
the  boy. 

"  She's  bashful,"  explained  Winnie, 
sagely.  The  boy  looked  blank. 

"  But  I  want  her  to  go !"  he  exclaimed, 
his  voice  shrill  with  disappointment. 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Winnie. 

"  I  don't  want  you,"  returned  the  boy. 
He  looked  anxiously  at  the  stolid  little 
figure  before  him.  Then  he  spoke,  ad 
dressing  the  pigtail.  "Please  go  with 
me,"  he  begged.  "It's  a  bully  show. 
They  have  jugglers  and  bears,  just  like 
you  saw  in  the  pictures,  and  a  man  walks 
on  a  wire.  It's  as  good  as  a  circus.  You 
like  circuses,  don't  you?" 


JEtat  Ten  41 

The  pigtail  quivered. 

"  Then  don't  you  want  to  go  to  some 
thing  that's  almost  nearly  exactly  like 
one?" 

The  pigtail  vibrated  wildly. 

"  Wait ;  let  me  ask  her,"  said  Winnie. 
She  fluttered  past  the  pigtail  and  the  six 
brown  buttons  with  the  air  of  a  person 
going  behind  the  scenes.  "I  wouldn't 
be  silly,"  she  advised  in  motherly  man 
ner. 

"  Tell  her  they  have  coon  songs,  too," 
put  in  the  boy.  The  interpreter  gave 
the  message. 

"  Will  she  go  ?"  the  boy  asked,  breath 
lessly. 

"I  think  she  will,"  said  Winnie;  "she 
sort  of  nodded." 

"  Will  you  ?"  begged  the  boy. 

The  pigtail  wavered;  then  faintly  but 
unmistakably  it  bobbed! 

"I  guess  we  had  better  go  now,"  said 
Winnie.  "  Take  me  to  the  matinee, 
some  time,  will  you,  Henry?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  boy.  "If 
Julie  stays  here  I'm  going  to  take  her 
every  week." 

"  Well,  take  me  when  Julie  goes  home, 
won't  you?"  asked  Winnie. 

"Maybe,"  said  the  boy. 

The    callers    went    out    softly,    with 


42  Harper's  Novelettes 

feminine  rustle.  The  pretty  girl  flitted 
ahead;  the  plainer  one  trudged  gravely 
in  her  wake. 

"  Good-by,  Julie,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Winnie. 

"  There  is  a  question  worrying  me," 
said  the  big  brother,  at  dinner.  "  It  is 
this:  Are  sirens  dumb?  In  the  legends 
we  are  led  to  believe  the  contrary,  but  I 
had  the  unequalled  fortune  to  see  a  real 
siren  to-day  and  overhear  a  conversation 
between  her  and  two  mortals,  and  since 
then  my  theories  have  been  shaken. 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  they  have 
some  method  of  signs,  or  silent  speech, 
whereby  they  make  themselves  under 
stood. 

"An  incident  in  proof  of  this:  The 
siren  accompanied  by  a  mortal  came 
upon  me  in  the  hall  as  they  were  leaving. 
It  was  a  great  occasion,  but  I  rose  to  it. 
I  bowed  and  asked  them  how  they  were. 
The  mortal  replied,  'How  do  you  do?' 
as  mortals  have  a  way  of  doing,  but  the 
siren — the  siren  did  something  myste 
rious.  She  uttered  no  word,  but  grace 
fully  elevated  one  shoulder  and  laid  her 
cheek  upon  it,  then  wheeling  slowly,  gave 
me  a  rear  view  of  her  charming,  if  some 
what  matronly,  figure.  And  thus  she 
stood  until  I  bowed  myself  away.  Will 


JEtat  Ten  43 

some  one  versed  in  siren  lore  explain 
this? 

"And  still  other  problems  harass  me. 
I  thought — I  must  have  been  mistaken — 
that  I  detected  freckles  on  her  nose. 
Do  sirens  have  freckles?  And  are  their 
noses  ever  of  the  genus  known  as  pug? 
Also,  is  a  small,  tight  pigtail  the  pre 
ferred  arrangement  for  sirens'  hair  now, 
instead  of  the  flowing  tresses  we  have 
read  about?  These  things  trouble  me. 
I  hope  you  will  pity  my  ignorance  and 
enlighten  it." 

The  big  brother  turned  gravely  to  the 
boy.  The  boy  looked  up. 

"Would  you  wear  your  best  sailor 
suit  or  your  new  brown  suit,  if  you  were 
me  and  were  going  to  the  matinee?" 
he  asked. 

"  Wasted,"  laughed  the  big  brother. 

It  was  Tuesday  when  the  boy  extended 
his  invitation  to  Julie.  For  three  days 
after,  his  most  serious  occupation  in 
life  lay  in  helping  Saturday  along.  It 
required  a  great  deal  of  helping.  In 
ordinary  weeks  it  came  slowly  enough, 
Goodness  knows,  but  in  this  remarkable 
week  it  seemed  likely  to  stop  altogether. 
Scratching  the  days  off  the  calendar  with 
a  pencil  helped  some,  and  counting  the 
times  you  have  to  go  to  bed  and  get  up 


44  Harper's  Novelettes 

again  was  another  way.  Adding  the 
number  of  breakfasts  and  luncheons  and 
dinners  you  would  eat  before  the  magic 
day  was  perhaps  the  best  way  of  all, 
provided  their  sum  was  not  so  great  as 
to  discourage  you.  The  big  sister's  ap 
peals  grew  more  and  more  frequent.  She 
could  not  understand  the  necessity  for 
fast  eating,  even  though  it  hastened  the 
time  for  deducting  one  more  meal  from 
the  list. 

Besides  helping  Saturday,  the  boy 
spent  much  time  perfecting  his  plan  and 
elaborating  it.  He  spent  a  quarter — his 
week's  allowance — on  a  box  of  candy 
wherewith  to  refresh  his  lady  and  him 
self  during  the  performance.  His  sis 
ter's  reiterations  that  this  was  neither 
fashionable  nor  refined  could  not  shake 
him.  Julie  would  like  it,  he  insisted; 
that  was  all  that  mattered.  He  also  de 
cided  that  he  would  like  it,  as  he  fondly 
lifted  a  chocolate  cream  to  his  nose, 
smelled  it  ecstatically,  and  replaced  it. 

This  was  to  be  no  ordinary  matinee. 
Ordinary  matinees  you  were  content 
with  a  glass  or  two  of  spring  water,  ob 
tained  after  much  beckoning  from  a 
haughty  little  boy  who  carried  a  wire 
basket.  It  really  seemed  as  if  lemonade 
were  required  at  this  matinee.  The  boy 


JEt&t  Ten  45 

pondered  the  question  of  taking  some  in 
a  bottle — until  he  was  answered  by  his 
mother.  He  decided,  then,  to  compromise 
on  a  few  lumps  of  sugar  which  could 
be  carried  in  his  pocket  and  slipped, 
quite  easily,  into  the  water  the  haughty 
little  boy  passed  them.  He  decided  this 
plan  should  not  be  endangered  by  un 
necessary  explanations. 

Julie  did  not  appear  at  school  now. 
Winnie  fluttered  past  him  to  her  seat 
each  morning,  like  a  butterfly  borne  by 
a  breeze,  but  no  tight  brown  pigtail 
bobbed  behind  her.  Once  the  boy  passed 
her  a  note  by  a  long  and  dangerous  route 
of  little  boys  and  girls.  The  bell  had 
rung  for  "  quiet "  and  the  teacher  had 
mounted  her  wooden  throne.  Winnie 
made  a  screen  of  her  curls,  and  read : 

"  DEAR  WINY, — Tomorrow  is  Saturday. 
Tell  July  I  am  coming  at  1.  Why  doesn't 
she  come  to  school  with  you  any  more? 
We  are  going  to  have  candy  and  sugar 
in  the  water.  Yours  truly, 

H.  F.  CLARK." 

To  which  Winnie  replied : 

"  DEAR  HENRY, — Jullie  is  too  bashful 
to  come.  Mamma  says  she  can  go.  She 


46  Harper's  Novelettes 

is  going  to  let  her  wear  her  best  hat  and 
have  her  hair  hanging.  What  candy  and 
sugar  are  you  talking  about?  When  are 
you  going  to  take  me? 

Your  loving  friend, 

WINNIE. 
e—  -  You  spelled  Winnie  and  Jullie 


wrong." 

The  boy  missed  in  geography  that  day. 
Vermont  was  bounded  on  the  north  by 
flowing  hair  under  a  best  hat,  on  the 
south  by  the  hair  and  hat,  and  also  on 
the  east  and  west.  "  I  forget,"  he  mum 
bled,  and  after  school  attended  a  lecture 
on  the  sin  of  absent-mindedness,  delivered 
to  an  audience  of  one.  That  night  he 
was  the  victim  of  an  experience,  newer, 
and  even  more  disagreeable. 

He  had  gone  to  bed  and  lay,  with 
wide  -  open  eyes,  fashioning  delightful 
thoughts  about  the  morrow.  Over  and 
over  again  the  shaggy  bears  performed; 
over  and  over  again  he  walked  with  care 
less  ease  down  the  theatre  aisle,  standing 
politely  aside  when  he  reached  the  seats 
to  let  the  best  hat  pass  in  before  him. 
He  drank  deep  of  the  sweetened  water 
and  ate  of  the  contents  of  a  certain  box, 
nobly  passing  by  the  big  ones  so  Julie 
could  take  those.  How  fine  and  loud  the 


JEtat  Ten  47 

orchestra  played,  and  what  a  funny  fel 
low  the  black-faced  man  was!  .  .  .  Then 
all  at  once  he  became  conscious  that  the 
house  was  still  and  the  light  in  his  moth 
er's  room  out.  The  clock  and  he  were 
the  only  two  in  the  world! 

He  buried  his  head  and  tried  to  sleep, 
but  he  did  not  know  exactly  how  it  was 
done.  He  had  never  tried  before.  The 
shaggy  bears,  the  funny  black-faced  man, 
the  man  with  pink  legs  on  the  wire,  Julie, 
and  Julie's  best  hat,  round  and  round 
they  went  in  endless  procession.  Then 
he  arose  and  woke  his  mother. 

When  he  was  cuddled  in  her  great, 
smooth  bed,  and  was  telling  her  how 
Julie,  and  the  bears,  and  the  man's  pink 
legs  had  kept  him  awak*  all  night,  off 
he  went  drifting  into  a  wonderful  dream, 
where  all  three  were  wonderfully  mingled ; 
and  he  did  not  hear  the  clock's  big  voice 
boom  out  ten  times. 

To-day  was  Saturday.  The  boy's  joy 
took  form  in  strange,  unmusical  cries 
and  much  thumping  of  feet  and  furniture. 
He  imitated  a  dog  barking  as  he  dressed ; 
then  he  imitated  a  cat;  then  he  imitated 
the  two  together,  and  felt  indignant  and 
surprised  at  his  family's  lack  of  appre 
ciation. 

4 


48  Harper's  Novelettes 

His  sister  held  up  her  watch  at  him  as 
he  entered  the  breakfast-room.  "  You'll 
be  late  for  school,"  she  warned.  He  look 
ed  at  her  in  amazement.  Was  it  possible 
any  one  did  not  know  to-day  was  Satur 
day? 

He  spent  a  great  part  of  the  morning 
arranging  and  rearranging  his  box  of 
candy  and  asking  what  time  it  was.  Also 
he  made  frequent  excursions  to  the  sugar- 
bowl  in  the  breakfast-room,  and  a  certain 
small  paper  bag  swelled  correspondingly. 
That  peculiarly  moist  and  sticky  condi 
tion  of  the  boy's  mouth  attendant,  ordi 
narily,  on  these  journeyings  was  lacking 
to-day.  No  sugar  for  him  —  he  was 
"  saving  up." 

At  eleven  his  mother,  wrought  to  an 
exquisite  pitch  of  nervousness,  said  "  yes  " 
to  a  question  repeated  each  half-minute, 
"  Is  it  time  to  get  dressed  now  ?"  and  for 
a  while  peace  reigned.  This  second  toilet 
was  too  serious  to  admit  of  barking  or 
mewing,  or  even  thumping.  The  mother 
wondered  absently  if  it  was  Sunday,  the 
house  seemed  so  still. 

At  half  past  eleven  he  was  dressed  and 
(Herculean  task  for  the  child!) — wait 
ing.  He  squirmed  on  the  edge  of  the 
hall  chair,  facing  the  clock,  until  his 
mother  took  pity  on  the  tense  face  and 


JEtat  Ten  49 

anxious  eyes,  and  brought  down  a  book 
to  read  to  him.  Going  tp  him  was  in 
evitable,  since  he  could  not  be  induced 
to  leave  the  clock. 

At  last  he  interrupted  a  stirring  chap 
ter  with  the  awesome  intelligence  that  it 
was  "  time."  He  bade  his  mother  good- 
by  with  dignity  befitting  the  occasion 
and  stepped  out  into  the  sunshine,  his 
mother  watching  him  as  he  went  down 
the  street.  It  was  only  a  ten-minute  walk, 
but  his  gait  was  somewhat  faster  than 
a  trot,  though  not  quite  a.  gallop.  It  is 
certain  he  would  have  arrived  early,  but 
for  the  paper  bag,  which  turned  traitor, 
and  the  time  consumed  in  lifting  each 
precious  lump  from  the  dust  and  wiping 
it  on  his  pocket  handkerchief.  So  at 
one  o'clock  exactly  he  stood  on  his  lady's 
doorstep,  his  eyes  shining,  his  face  a 
small  red  sun  from  heat  and  happiness. 
He  clutched  the  box  of  candy  in  one 
hand — the  unruly  sugar  had  been  rele 
gated  to  his  pocket — and  with  the  other 
rang  loudly,  as  befitted  a  successful 
swain. 

"Rrr-rr-rr-rr!"  Then  he  rang  again 
out  of  sheer  gladness,  a  sort  of  tattoo 
this  time. 

"  She  ain't  in,"  said  the  maid,  some- 


50  Harper's  Novelettes 

what  acidly;  perhaps  the  tattoo  had  not 
been  to  her  taste. 

The  boy  explained  all  over  again,  with 
cheerfulness.  It  was  Julie  he  wanted 
to  see — they  were  going  to  the  matinee. 
Would  she — 

"  She  ain't  in,"  said  the  maid. 

Something  inside  the  boy  struggled, 
then  sank. 

"Is— is  Winnie  in?" 

"  No,  Miss  Winnie's  out ;  everybody's 
out.  Miss  Winnie's  aunt,  she's  in,  but 
she  don't  want  to  see  anybody." 

The  boy  made  one  gigantic  effort. 
"  Can — can  I  wait  for  Julie  to  come 
back?"  he  asked.  He  spoke  meekly.  On 
this  dark  but  potential  being's  answer 
hung  his  fate. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  maid,  un 
graciously. 

She  left  him  standing  in  the  hall, 
facing  the  clock.  Then  she  came  back 
and  told  him  not  to  touch  anything,  and 
to  stay  right  where  he  was;  needless  ad 
vice,  this.  All  the  king's  horses  could 
not  have  driven  him  from  that  clock. 

He  waited  until  the  little  hand  had 
crept  around  to  two  and  the  long  slim 
hand  stood  on  twelve;  until  the  sun  had 
left  the  ferns  in  the  window  and  reddened 
vthe  curtains  between  the  parlor  doors; 


JEtat  Ten  51 

until  the  pink  man  had  mounted  the  wire 
and  the  bears  were  getting  ready  to  per 
form. 

The  mother  paused  in  her  sewing  to 
gaze  at  a  small  figure  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  her  door. 

"  Why,  what — "  she  began,  in  amaze 
ment;  and  then  stopped. 

After  all,  there  is  nothing  so  good  for 
that  deep-down  ache  as  a  hand  smooth 
ing  your  hair  and  two  arms  about  you; 
nothing  quite  so  good  for  that  great, 
sore  lump  as — big  boy  as  you  are — a  cry 
on  mother's  shoulder. 

Sunday  passed,  and  a  stormy  Monday 
kept  the  boy  at  home.  On  Tuesday  he 
went  to  school. 

It  was  early.  The  boy  came  in  leisure 
ly.  It  was  perhaps  his  first  experience 
in  entering  the  schoolhouse  in  that  man 
ner.  Ordinarily  a  mad  dash  was  all  that 
saved  him.  He  glanced  at  the  clock  and 
sat  down  in  surprise. 

The  room  was  empty  save  for  a  little 
group  at  the  farther  end.  They  were  all 
girls,  and  their  high-pitched  voices  reach 
ed  the  boy. 

"Where's  Winnie,  anyway?  She  was 
n't  liere  yesterday," 


52  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Don't  you  know  ?    She's  gone  away !" 

"Gone  away?" 

"Yes,  gone  away.  She  went  yesterday 
with  that  cousin  of  hers.  She's  going  to 
visit  her.  You  remember  her  cousin, 
don't  you?  She  came  to  school  with 
Winnie  one  day.  She  was  awful  bashful, 
and  wore  her  hair  in  one  real  tight  braid. 
Don't  you  remember,  Rosy?" 

Rosy  remembered.  The  boy  remem 
bered,  too. 

The  children  were  beginning  to  strag 
gle  in;  each  new  arrival  entering  faster 
than  the  last  as  the  hour  grew  later. 
Soon  the  room  rang  with  merry  voices, 
the  clatter  of  dropping  books,  the  slam 
ming  of  desk  lids.  "Where's  Winnie?" 
each  little  girl  arrival  would  ask,  and  the 
little  girl  who  knew  would  explain. 

The  boy  sat  still.  He  did  not  join  in 
the  general  chat,  or  even  in  the  slamming 
of  desk  lids.  He  sat  still  and  drew 
pictures  on  his  slate.  He  was  glad  of  it, 
he  told  himself.  He  was  glad  Julie  had 
gone,  and  he  was  glad  Winnie  had  gone 
with  her.  He  didn't  want  to  know  why 
Julie  hadn't  been  there  when  he  called 
for  her.  He  didn't  care  about  Julie, 
anyhow.  He  didn't  care  a  cent. 

The  week  passed  slowly.  The  boy 
turned  his  thoughts  to  deciding  the  deli- 


JEtzt  Ten  53 

cafe  question  of  how  old  Sarah  would  be 
if  Frank  was  eleven  and  one- third  years 
old,  and  John  three  and  one-half  years 
older  than  Frank,  and  Sarah  five  and 
seven-eighths  years  older  than  John.  At 
times  he  worked  faithfully,  but  on  occa 
sions  it  required  nothing  less  than  the 
teacher's  voice  to  bring  his  straying 
thoughts  back  to  Sarah. 

Another  week  dragged  by,  and  it  was 
at  the  beginning  of  a  third  that  an  un 
usual  twittering  in  the  rear  of  the  school 
room  told  the  boy  Winnie  had  returned. 
Doggedly  he  kept  his  eyes  ahead — not 
even  the  friend  of  his  Delilah  would  he 
recognize;  but  Winnie  was  of  the  kind 
not  easily  repulsed.  She  gave  him  a 
friendly  nod  and  smile  as  she  passed  on 
her  way  to  the  blackboard,  and  in  coming 
back  laid  an  envelope  on  his  desk. 

It  was  a  pink  envelope.  Across  its 
middle  was  his  name,  in  spreading,  round 
ed  characters.  All  the  little  girls  in 
school  wrote  that  way — Nellie,  Fannie, 
Lillie,  Pollie,— all  of  them.  And  all  the 
little  boys  wrote  that  way,  too.  He 
might  have  supposed  the  note  to  be  from 
Winnie  herself,  but  for  the  envelope. 
The  notes  you  got  in  school  never  boast 
ed  envelopes.  All  at  once  the  boy  began 
to  suspect  the  truth. 


54  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  teacher  was  explaining  the  rules 
for  the  subtraction  of  fractions,  with  her 
face  towards  the  blackboard.  She  seemed 
lost  in  her  subject.  The  boy  drew  the 
note  closer.  Then  cautiously  holding  it 
on  his  knee,  where  the  desk  served  as  a 
screen,  he  slit  the  envelope. 

Inside  was  a  little  pink  letter,  with  a 
picture  of  a  little  girl  feeding  two  fat 
geese  stamped  on  top  of  the  page. 

The  boy  read : 

"DEAR  HENRY, — You  said  they  was 
bears  there  and  I  am  afraid  of  bears 
cause  they  is  wild.  So  I  went  out  and 
hid  in  the  yard  that  day  you  were  com- 
ming.  And  after  you  went  I  came  back. 
I  am  comming  to  see  Winnie  another  one 
time.  Please  don't  take  me  to  vordvil, 
will  you?  Please  write  me  some  letters 
and  I  will  write  some.  Lets  you  and  me 
write  to  just  us.  I  think  you  are  a  nice 
boy  but  please  don't  go  to  the  vordvil 
where  the  wild  bears  is.  Good-by. 
Please  write  me  a  letter  soon. 

Your  sincerely  friend, 

JULIA  CLATON." 

Later  in  the  day  the  teacher  smiled 
approvingly  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  boy's 
brown  head  bent  low  over  his  desk.  Be- 


Ten  55 

fore  him  lay  an  open  book.  He  was 
writing  diligently.  She  reflected  that 
Henry  was  trying  to  do  better ;  she  would 
give  him  "Fair"  instead  of  "Poor" 
this  month. 

The  boy  wrote  on,  head  twisted,  brows 
bent,  his  protruding  tongue  following  the 
efforts  of  the  pen  on  the  paper.  Now  and 
again  he  would  stop  and  nibble  his  pen- 
handle;  then  on  again,  painfully,  labo 
riously.  He  was  writing  his  first  love- 
letter. 


An  Unskilled  Laborer 

BY   MAY   KELSEY   CHAMPION 

THE  coming  home  after  your  first 
long  visit  away  is  a  wonderful 
experience.  There  are  so  many 
surprises.  The  rooms  are  larger  or 
smaller — it  depends  upon  where  you  have 
been, — but  new,  anyway,  and  strange,  and 
far,  far  pleasanter  than  anything  you 
have  seen  in  your  travels.  The  stairs 
are  farther  from  the  door,  the  fireplace 
tiles  are  green — you  had  thought  that 
they  were  blue, — and  even  the  sitting- 
room  clock  strikes  differently. 

Graham  Lee  found  that  he  had  for 
gotten  a  good  deal  in  the  two  weeks 
that  he  had  been  with  his  aunt  in  Len 
ox.  He  had  forgotten  how  warm  and 
bright  and  fragrant  the  front  hall  was 
when  you  came  into  it  just  after  dark 
on  a  cool  evening.  He  had  forgotten 
how  straight  and  tall  his  father  was,  and 
how  deep  and  pleasant  his  voice  sounded 
when  he  spoke.  And  then,  oh,  then, 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  57 

with  his  arms  about  her  neck,  he  found 
that  he  had  forgotten  just  how  beautiful 
— how  "beautiful — his  mother  was! 

Even  Cummings  seemed  to  have 
learned  more  agreeable  ways  in  the  two 
weeks,  and  that  first  night  at  dinner 
did  not  push  Graham's  chair  so  close 
to  the  table  that  his  elbows  hit  when  he 
ate — which  is  very  uncomfortable  when 
your  feet  do  not  touch  the  floor  and 
you  cannot  push  the  chair  back  without 
getting  out  entirely.  Cummings  even 
noticed  at  once  when  Graham's  glass  was 
empty,  or  when  he  wanted  more  of  any 
thing,  which  was  a  great  improvement 
in  Cummings. 

Graham  felt  that  it  was  good  to  be 
at  home  again  and  have  everybody  so 
glad  to  see  him. 

And  then,  after  dinner,  to  sit  by  the 
fire,  very  close  to  his  mother,  with  his 
hand  in  hers!  There  was  company — a 
man  who  had  dressed  up  in  old  clothes 
and  gone  all  around  getting  work  in  fac 
tories  and  mines  and  lumber-camps  and 
places,  to  see  how  that  kind  of  people 
lived,  and  was  going  to  write  a  book 
about  it, — so  they  could  not  talk  much; 
they  had  to  listen  to  him;  but  they 
smiled  at  each  other  very  often.  Noth 
ing  that  he  had  known  while  he  waa 


58  Harper's  Novelettes 

away  had  been  like  this!  Sometimes 
he  would  go  over  and  sit  on  the  arm 
of  his  father's  chair.  Of  course  he  did 
not  take  his  hand.  Men  didn't.  But 
he  would  lean  against  his  shoulder  for 
a  while,  and  then,  by  and  by,  he  would 
come  back  to  his  mother. 

Oh,  but  it  was  fine  to  get  home! 

And  the  next  morning,  to  go  around 
and  see  the  fellows,  and  after  he  had 
made  sure  that  they  regarded  him  a 
little  differently  for  his  having  been 
away,  to  let  them  see  that  he  was  un 
changed  in  spite  of  it! 

Oh  yes,  it  was  great,  being  home ! 

But  it  does  not  take  long  for  the 
newness  to  wear  off,  and  by  noon  of 
the  day  after  his  return  Graham  had 
reached  that  restless  period  which  is  be 
tween  the  excitement  of  the  arrival  and 
the  taking  up  of  the  old  manner  of  life. 

He  went  to  his  room  after  luncheon 
and  considered  what  there  was  to  do. 
School  would  begin  Monday,  so  he  felt 
that  he  must  not  waste  the  afternoon. 
As  he  looked  across  the  park  he  could  see 
the  men  at  work  on  the  new  extension  of 
the  Chaloner  Museum  of  Art.  It  must 
be  very  hard  to  work  all  through  the 
summer  vacation,  but  a  good  many  peo 
ple  had  to, 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  59 

Some  of  the  stories  that  Mr.  Leiter 
had  told  the  night  before  were  very  in 
teresting.  He  must  have  had  a  great 
many  experiences.  Graham  thought  that 
he  would  like  to  read  his  hook  when  it 
was  printed.  It  was  a  fine  thing  to  go 
around  and  study  the  lives  of  the 
working-people  and  tell  about  them  and 
try  to  ameliorate  their  conditions.  He 
had  never  thought  of  it  before. 

He  looked  over  toward  the  red  brick 
walls  of  the  museum  and  wondered  if 
there  were  any  labor  conditions  over 
there.  But  of  course  there  were;  Mr. 
Leiter  found  them  everywhere. 

Graham  rose.  He  knew  what  he  would 
do.  He  would  put  on  his  overalls  and 
old  cap  and  go  over  there  and  ask  for 
work  and  study  labor  conditions.  Then 
he  would  write  a  composition  about  them. 
There  was  always  a  composition  to  write 
as  soon  as  school  began. 

As  he  walked  across  the  park  he  felt 
more  and  more  the  loftiness  of  his  pur 
pose.  In  his  composition  he  would  fear 
lessly  expose  any  wrong  that  he  might 
see, — any  oppression, — and  perhaps  he 
might  do  a  great  deal  of  good. 

He  asked  the  first  workman  that  he 
saw  if  he  could  get  a  job.  He  disliked 
the  word,  but  it  seemed  to  him  the  one 


60  Harper's  Novelettes 

to  use.  The  workman  looked  up  from 
the  mortar  he  was  mixing,  surveyed 
Graham  for  a  considerable  period,  then 
indicating  with  a  turn  of  his  thumb  a 
man  who  was  carrying  bricks,  replied 
that  he  must  ask  him. 

Graham  applied  to  the  man  with  the 
bricks,  only  to  be  referred  to  another 
man  who  was  looking  out  of  a  window 
in  the  second  story.  The  man  in  the 
window  sent  him  down  to  the  cellar, 
where  he  was  passed  from  one  to  another 
among  the  plumbers,  and  then  directed 
to  the  carpenters  up-stairs,  to  meet  with 
a  similar  experience. 

It  was  not  until  after  his  fourteenth 
interview  that  the  conviction  reached 
Graham  that  he  had  been  imposed  upon, 
and  was  the  victim  of  a  general  joke.  He 
was  walking  slowly  down  one  of  the 
corridors  of  the  main  building  at  the 
time,  and  it  brought  him  to  a  sudden 
pause.  From  his  observations  that  after 
noon  it  began  to  appear  to  him  that  the 
laboring  -  man's  condition  did  not  so 
greatly  need  ameliorating.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  good  deal  of  resting  and  whistling 
and  sitting  on  boxes  and  waiting  for 
somebody  else,  in  the  building  trades 
at  least. 

He   passed   on   to   the   other   corridor, 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  61 

where  the  pictures  hung.  Here  some  one 
had  begun  cleaning  the  brass  railing 
that  guarded  a  Rembrandt  at  the  end. 
A  cloth  and  a  box  of  paste  lay  on  the 
floor.  Graham  picked  them  up  and  be 
gan  to  rub.  No  one  came  to  interfere, 
and  he  could  at  least  feel  like  a  work 
man  and  get  his  hands  soiled  with  labor. 

He  had  given  himself  up  to  the  en 
joyment  of  a  lavish  expenditure  of 
strength  and  paste,  when  he  heard  voices 
behind  him.  In  the  next  alcove  Mr. 
Henry  ChaJoiier,  the  founder  of  the  mu 
seum,  was  talking  to  the  curator. 

"  Yes,  1  have  decided  to  take  the  trip 
around  the  Horn,"  he  said,  "  so  the  pic 
tures  will  remain  here  for  some  time — 
indefinitely,  in  fact.  Ultimately,  I  sup 
pose  that  I  shall  give  them  to  the  mu 
seum.  You  might  tell  Finch  to  change 
that  Corot  over  to  the  other  side,  Mr. 
Torrey,  and  move  the  Diaz  nearer  the 
window.  The  light  will  be  better  on 
both.  Don't  you  think  so  2" 

Mr.  Chaloner  moved  from  one  picture 
to  another.  They  belonged  at  the  house, 
but  as  there  was  no  one  there  but  him 
self  now  he  had  allowed  them  to  be 
brought  over  to  the  museum  for  a  while. 
He  paused  again  before  the  Corot — a 
large  canvas,  full  of  the  tender,  shim- 


62  Harper's  Novelettes 

mering,  silvery  green  of  spring-time. 
Isabel  had  chosen  that.  He  remembered 
so  well  her  delight  in  it.  That  was  in 
their  own  spring-time. 

He  sighed  and  turned  to  the  next  al 
cove,  where  Graham,  in  his  old  cap  and 
blue  overalls,  was  polishing  the  brass 
railing.  Mr.  Chaloner  regarded  him 
with  interest. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  he  said,  after  a 
few  moments.  "  I  didn't  know  that 
Harrison  had  so  young  a  man  on  the 
force." 

Graham  removed  his  cap  and  said, 
"  Good  afternoon,"  then  fell  to  work  with 
all  his  strength  upon  a  speck  of  tarnish. 

He  knew  that  this  was  Mr.  Chaloner, 
giver  of  the  museum  and  owner  of  the 
great  Chaloner  Mills.  It  was  a  meeting 
of  employer  and  employed  at  the  ut 
most  extremes  of  the  scale  of  labor — a 
situation  that  would  have  been  full  of 
opportunity  for  Mr.  Leiter.  He  would 
have  known  what  to  say.  Graham  did  not. 

He  rubbed  as  long  as  he  could  on  the 
rail,  Mr.  Chaloner  watching  him  the 
while  with  embarrassing  steadiness;  then 
he  stopped  to  breathe. 

"Do    you    have    to    work,    my    boy?" 

"  I  thought  I  would,"  replied  Graham, 
after  a  deep  suspiration. 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  63 

"  But  you  ought  to  be  in  school," 

"This  is  vacation — sir."  Graham  be 
gan  to  rise  to  his  part.  "  I  go  to  school 
almost  all  the  time.  It's  only  vacations 
and  Saturdays  that  I  can  work  at  my — - 
my  trade." 

"  And  what  do  you  call  your  trade  ?" 

"Unskilled  labor,"  replied  Graham. 
Mr.  Leiter  had  used  the  phrase  several 
times  during  the  evening  before,  and  he 
rather  liked  the  sound. 

"Oh!"  Mr.  Chaloner  laughed.  "It's 
a  trade  that's  rather  crowded,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir."  The  words  were  very 
respectful. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  be  when 
you  grow  up?" 

Graham  hesitated.  For  a  long  time 
it  had  been  a  bright  dream  of  his  to  be 
one  day  a  pugilist — a  gentlemanly  one, 
of  course;  he  did  not  see  why  that  might 
not  be.  But  he  had  mentioned  it  once 
to  his  mother,  and  she  had  begged  him, 
in  great  distress  and  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  .never  to  let  her  hear  the  word 
again.  Graham  had  pronounced  it  "  pug- 
gerlist  "—with  the  hard  g.  He  had  felt 
obliged  to  give  it  up,  but  nothing  that 
he  had  thought  of  since  seemed  so  al 
luring.  The  pause  grew  embarrassing. 
He  disliked  to  say  he  didn't  know,  for 


64  Harper's  Novelettes 

Mr.  Chaloner  would  not  understand,  and 
might  suppose  that  he  had  never  thought 
about  it.  Besides,  he  always  hated  to 
say  he  didn't  know  to  anything.  Gra 
ham's  writing  was  bad,  and  he  had  been 
obliged  to  copy  a  certain  line  of  Pope's 
twenty-five  times  one  day  at  school.  He 
remembered  it  now. 

"An  honest  man,"  he  offered,  hesita 
tingly.  Perhaps  it  would  do. 

"Well,  there's  plenty  of  room  in  that 
profession,  at  least."  Mr.  Chaloner  lean 
ed  against  the  rail  as  if  he  meant  to  stay 
for  a  while. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Graham,  very  respect 
fully,  as  before. 

"  Doesn't  your  father  work  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.  Very  hard.  He  works  in  a 
— er — mill."  Graham  saw  the  chance 
for  an  artistic  touch  and  availed  himself 
of  it.  Once  or  twice  of  late  his  father 
had  referred  to  his  business  as  a  tread 
mill.  "  But  it  takes  a  great  deal  to  sup 
port  us.  I'm  a  great  expense.  I  wear 
out  my  clothes  and  I  eat  a  great  deal." 

"  So  you  try  to  help  him."  Mr.  Chal 
oner  regarded  him  with  approval.  "  It 
does  you  much  credit." 

It  did  not  seem  to  Graham  that  it 
was  quite  fair  to  his  father  to  leave  it 
that  way,  and  it  made  him  feel  uncom- 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  65 

fortable  to  receive  credit  that  did  not 
belong  to  him.  For  a  moment  he  thought 
of  explaining  things  to  Mr.  Chaloner, 
but  the  afternoon  was  half  over,  and  he 
had  not  yet  learned  anything  about  labor 
conditions  that  he  could  put  into  a  com 
position.  Besides,  Mr.  Leiter  never  ex 
plained.  Graham  didn't  see  how  he 
could  have  kept  from  it  sometimes  with 
out  feeling  mean. 

"I'd  like  to  help  him,"  he  replied, 
truthfully.  "He  says  I  do  help  him  in 
a  good  many  ways.  He's  the  best  father ! 
I've  seen  quite  a  good  many  fathers — 
other  fellows',  you  know."  Graham 
raised  his  face  and  spoke  with  great 
earnestness.  "I've  just  been  away,  and 
we  missed  each  other  a  great  deal.  Ev 
ery  Sunday  afternoon  we  go  for  a 
long  walk  in  the  country  and  talk 
about  things." 

"What  do  you  talk  about?"  It  was 
taking  an  advantage,  but  Mr.  Chaloner 
looked  down  into  the  eyes  that  were 
gazing  back  at  him  all  alight  with  af 
fection.  He  was  growing  interested  in 
this  boy,  who  must  be  the  child  of  one  of 
his  own  mill-hands,  it  appeared. 

Graham  considered.  Some  questions 
sounded  so  easy  and  were  so  hard  to 
answer. 


66  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Quite  often,"  lie  began,  slowly,  still 
trying  to  select— "  quite  often  we  talk 
about  wbat  we  would  do  if  things 
happened." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Mr.  Chaloner 
pursued,  still  leaning  against  the  rail 
and  watching  the  boy  intently. 

"Well,   like  this,"   replied   Graham,— 
"  What  would  you  do  if  you  were  writing 
your  geography  examination   and  heard 
a    boy   behind   you   whisper   the  ^  answer 
to  a  question  before  you  were  quite  sure 
whether  you  knew  it  yourself  ?" 
"  What  would  you  do  ?" 
"I  wrote:  ' Zambesi.     I  think  I  knew 
it,  but   I  heard  Harold  Dodge  whisper 
it,  too.' " 

Mr.  Chaloner  nodded. 
"  Then  sometimes  he  asks  my  ^  ad 
vice  about  things— real,  grown-up  things, 
you  know."  Graham  stood  very  straight 
and  told  it  proudly.  "Of  course  he 
doesn't  expect  me  to  know  always,  and 
J  make  mistakes,  and  he  laughs.  But 
I  tell  him  what  I  think  I'd  do.  We  have 
splendid  times;  and  he  knows  all  the 
birds  and  almost  all  the  wild  flowers. 

Mr.  Chaloner  turned  away  and  began 
looking  at  the  pictures.  His  own  boy, 
George,  was  about  the  age  of  this  little 
fellow  in  the  blue  overalls.  George  was 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  67 

away  at  school,  and  it  had  seemed  best 
to  keep  him  there,  even  through  the 
last  vacation. 

"Do  you  like  these ?"  Mr.  Chaloner 
asked,  when  he  had  made  half  the  circuit 
of  the  alcove. 

"I  like  the  light-colored  ones  and  the 
ones  you  can  look  at  close  to,"  replied 
Graham. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Chaloner.  "I 
think  our  tastes  must  be  similar." 

"Do  you  like  posters?"  inquired  Gra 
ham.  "  Father  brings  me  home  all  the 
good  ones,  and  I'm  making  a  collec 
tion.  I  think  collections  are  interest 
ing,  don't  you?  I  have  a  good  many — 
stamps  and  postal  cards  and  minerals 
and  such  things." 

"  This  is  the  only  collection  I  have," 
said  Mr.  Chaloner.  "  I  enjoyed  making  it, 
but  I'm  thinking  of  giving  it  away  now." 

There  was  a  weariness  in  his  words 
which  even  Graham  recognized. 

"  It's  a  very  nice  one,"  he  said,  en 
couragingly.  "  Sometimes  I  get  tired 
of  my  collections,  but  I  put  them  away, 
and  after  a  while  I  get  interested  again. 
Perhaps  you  will." 

"  Perhaps."  But  there  was  no  warmth 
in  the  tone. 

"  That's  quite  a  pretty  one."     Graham 


68  Harper's  Novelettes 

indicated  a  small  landscape  by  Constable. 
"  It  looks  like  a  place  where  father  and 
I  went  fishing  last  summer,  when  he 
took  his  vacation.  It  looks  quite  a  good 
deal  like  it."  Graham  regarded  the  can 
vas  critically.  "  We  camped  out  for  two 
weeks — just  us  two." 

His  voice  thrilled  and  his  eyes  were 
shining  at  the  joyful  recollection  as  he 
looked  up.  "  We  had  such  a  good  time !" 
he  said,  with  a  happy  sigh. 

Mr.  Chaloner  smiled  back  at  the 
bright,  upturned  face. 

"  I  hope  you  can  go  again  next  sum 
mer,"  he  said ;  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Graham  looked  at  his.  It  was  soiled 
and  sticky  with  the  paste. 

Mr.  Chaloner  looked  also  and  laughed, 
but  he  did  not  withdraw  his  hand. 

"  I  don't  mind,"  he  said,  courageously. 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  wash  them,"  sug 
gested  Graham. 

"  All  right." 

The  giver  of  the  Chaloner  Museum 
of  Fine  Arts  waited  while  the  young 
unskilled  laborer  in  blue  overalls  went 
off  down  the  corridor  in  search  of  water 
and  a  towel. 

In  a  short  time  Graham  returned,  and 
presented  a  hand  that  was  clean,  though 
still  a  little  damp  from  hurried  drying. 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  69 

Mr.  Chaloner  held  it  in  a  close  grasp 
for  a  moment. 

"  Good-by,  my  boy,  good-by,"  he  said. 
"  I  hope  we'll  see  each  other  again." 

Mr.  Henry  Chaloner  walked  slowly 
down  the  gray  marble  stairway  of  the 
museum  and  across  the  park  to  his  home. 

Not  a  sound  greeted  him  as  he  opened 
the  door.  He  was  used  to  that,  but  to 
night  the  house  seemed  more  than  usual 
ly  still. 

Leaving  his  hat  and  coat  in  the  hall, 
he  went  into  the  library  to  wait  until 
dinner  should  be  ready.  He  did  not 
trouble  to  dress  when  his  wife  was  away. 

The  library  was  still,  too,  except  for 
the  steady  and  monotonous  blowing  of 
the  gas-log  in  the  fireplace. 

His  mail  was  waiting  on  his  desk,  but 
he  did  not  approach  it;  neither  did  he 
take  up  the  paper  which  lay  on  the  table. 

Crossing  the  room,  he  sat  down  be 
fore  the  fireplace.  For  some  time  his 
gaze  followed  the  irregular  line  of  small 
flames — always  the  same  line!  How 
tiresome  a  gas-log  was!  And  they  had 
given  up  their  old  friendly  wood  fires 
for  it.  Something  that  was  real,  for  a 
hollow  semblance!  He  smiled  a  little 
bitterly.  A  wood  fire  was  almost  human 
in  its  companionship. 


70  Harper's  Novelettes 

He  wished  that  he  had  brought  that 
little  fellow  in  the  blue  overalls  home 
to  dinner  with  him.  The  child  had  in 
terested  him.  He  reminded  him  a  good 
deal  of  George,  too.  And  how  the  boy 
had  run  on  about  his  father!  He  won 
dered  what  George  would  have  found  to 
s&y  to  a  stranger  about  his  father.  Per 
haps  he  never  spoke  of  him  at  all.  They 
seldom  saw  each  other. 

The  man  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

He  had  thought  that  he  was  doing 
what  was  best  for  his  child.  He  had 
given  careful  consideration  to  the  school 
he  had  placed  him  in.  It  was  one  of  the 
best  in  the  country.  But  he  knew  what 
he  would  like.  To-morrow  would  be 
Sunday.  He  would  like  to  take  a  walk 
into  the  country  with  him — and  talk 
about  things — like  that  little  fellow  and 
his  father.  How  proudly  the  boy  had 
told  of  his  father's  asking  his  ad 
vice  sometimes!  He  would  like  to  do 
that,  too. 

He  had  never  meant  to  neglect  George. 
But  to-night  he  was  conscious  of  a  need 
of  him,  a  longing  for  his  presence,  which 
he  had  never  felt  before.  He  wonder 
ed  if  George  had  ever  felt  a  need 
of  him.  The  thought  made  him  stir 
again,  uncomfortably. 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  71 

He  bent  forward!  and  turned  out  the 
gas. 

The  father  of  that  little  fellow  at  the 
museum  was  one  of  his  own  mill-hands, 
it  seemed.  If  so,  he  would  be  out  of  work 
next  Monday.  He  hoped  that  it  would 
not  make  any  difference  with  the  boy. 
He  would  try  to  see  that  it  did  not. 

There  would  be  twelve  hundred  or  more 
other  men  out  of  work  as  well,  many  of 
them  with  children  too.  He  regretted 
it.  He  had  told  Shipley  that  from  the 
first.  But  Shipley  had  said  that  the  mills 
were  running  behind,  and  they  would 
have  to  shut  down  for  a  few  months. 

He  had  never  interested  himself  very 
much  in  the  mills,  which  had  been  his 
father's  pride,  and  while  Montgomery  was 
in  charge  there  had  been  no  need. 

He  could  not  remember  that  Mont 
gomery  had  ever  shut  down,  except  for 
a  few  days  at  a  time,  for  repairs  or  new 
machinery.  The  Chaloner  Mills  had  a 
wide  reputation  for  steadiness,  and  had 
run  on  full  time  through  several  seasons 
of  trade  depression  and  more  than  one 
actual  panic. 

It  had  been  his  father's  wish  that  he 
should  one  day  take  charge  of  the  mills 
himself,  but  he  had  hated  them  and  kept 
as  far  as  possible  from  their  clatter. 


72  Harper's  Novelettes 

An  hour,  a  half-Thorn*,  and  another 
hour  sounded  from  the  clock  on  the 
mantel. 

Henry  Chaloner  sat  before  the  fire 
place  surveying  the  perspective  of  past 
years.  They  had  not  been  very  useful 
years.  His  father's  life  of  steady,  ear 
nest  toil  stood  out  in  sharp  contrast. 
But  he  had  not  needed  to  work  like 
that.  He  could  scarcely  spend  the  mon 
ey  now,  though  he  gave  away  large  sums 
each  year. 

Giving — yes,  he  believed  he  had  given 
rather  generously.  Perhaps  there  was  a 
little  that  was  worthy  in  his  life,  after 
all.  Then  he  was  ashamed.  What  was 
it  that  he  had  given?  Something  that 
he  did  not  want  himself,  and  had  never 
earned.  His  hands  had  never  touched 
belt  or  pulley.  He  looked  at  them  cu 
riously.  It  was  the  toil-hardened  hands 
of  twelve  hundred  other  men  that  had 
made  his  giving  possible — the  hands  of 
the  men  he  was  planning  to  turn  off 
on  Monday. 

In  his  desk  was  a  letter  offering  fifty 
thousand  dollars  to  the  town  of  Conway 
for  a  library.  Conway  was  his  father's 
birthplace,  and  he  had  always  meant  to 
do  something  for  it.  He  had  written 
the  letter  that  morning. 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  73 

For  a  while  longer  lie  sat  considering. 
At  last  he  rose.  Something  of  the  old 
Chaloner  resolution  had  been  reborn 
within  him. 

Going  to  his  desk,  he  found  the  letter 
and  dropped  it  into  the  waste-basket. 
Conway  would  have  to  wait  a  year 
or  two. 

Then  he  went  out  in  the  hall  to  the 
telephone. 

"Oh,  Shipley,"  he  called,  over  the 
private  wire,  "  I've  decided  to  put  off 
shutting  down  for  a  while.  I'll  see  you 
early  Monday  morning." 

Returning,  he  sat  down  to  his  mail, 
running  it  over  rapidly  at  first  to  select 
what  appeared  most  important. 

One  of  the  letters  he  opened  with  a 
hurried,  nervous  movement. 

There  were  many  sheets  of  fine,  heavy 
paper,  and  the  cipher  was  I.  V.  C., 
in  silver. 

The  lines  in  Mr.  Chaloner's  face 
deepened  as  he  read  the  loosely  written 
pages,  one  after  another  telling  of  the 
brilliant  events  that  were  filling  the  days 
and  nights  at  Lenox — accounts  of  din 
ners  and  house-parties;  long  paragraphs 
of  names  made  familiar  by  the  Sun 
day  newspapers: 

(c  It    is    all    very    gay    and    pleasant 


74  Harper's  Novelettes 

enough,"  lie  read  at  last,  "but  I  am 
getting  tired  of  Lenox,  perhaps,  and  I 
am  coming  home,  Henry. 

"Have  you  fully  decided  upon  the 
trip  around  the  Horn?  If,  for  any 
reason,  you  should  have  given  it  up,  I 
believe  I  should  not  go  to  New  York  this 
winter.  I  have  seen  enough  of  New  York 
here  at  Lenox,  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  should  like  to  be  at  home.  We  have 
never  tried  a  winter  there. 

"But  perhaps  you  would  not  care  for 
it.  And  then,  you  must  not  change 
your  arrangements.  I  do  not  forget  how 
consistently  you  have  kept  your  part  of 
our  agreement  of  three  years  ago  not 
to  question  or  interfere  with  each  other's 
purposes  or  decisions  in  any  way,  and  I 
should  not  like  you  to  give  up  the  voyage 
if  you  would  enjoy  it. 

"  If  we  were  to  be  at  home,  I  should 
like  to  send  for  George.  The  school  may 
not  be  so  good  there,  but  we  could  try  it 
for  a  while.  It  is  a  long  time  since  we 
had  him  with  us. 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  have  not  been  a 
very  good  mother  to  him. 

"  There  has  been  a  child  up  here — 
Mrs.  Cornwallis's  nephew,  Graham  Lee. 
He  reminded  me  a  good  deal  of  George. 
And  he  was  constantly  talking  of  his 


An  Unskilled  Laborer  75 

mother  in  such  a  beautiful  way.  I  think 
it  was  hearing  him  that  has  made  me 
see,  for  I  know  that  George  could  never 
talk  of  me  in  that  way. 

"And  it  is  not  toward  him  alone  that 
I  have  failed,  Henry.  I  have  seen  that, 
too.  And  because  I  have  seen,  it  almost 
seems  to  me  that  if  I  came  home  now  I 
could  go  back  to  those  other,  better  days 
— that  we  could  begin  some  things  dif 
ferently,  and  find  again  something  of 
that  which  we  have  lost. 

"I  am  coming  on  the  half  past  four 
train  Monday.  ISABEL." 

Henry  Chaloner  read  the  sheet  a  sec 
ond  and  a  third  time. 

It  was  not  a  dream.  These  were  words 
on  paper,  and  the  paper  rustled  as  he 
turned  the  page. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  motionless  in 
the  empty,  silent  room,  his  head  resting 
upon  his  hand.  It  was  he  who  had  been 
wrong  those  many  times — he  who  had 
failed  toward  both  her  and  the  child. 

Remorse,  bitter  memories,  hope,  stern 
determination  to  do  a  man's  work  in  the 
world  henceforth,  prayers  of  thanks 
giving,  prayers  for  help — all  these  swept 
his  soul  by  turns. 

If  he  could  ever  tell  her ! 


76  Harper's  Novelettes 

But  she  was  coming  Monday.  Mon 
day!  A  great  gladness  overcame  all 
the  rest. 

Suddenly  he  rose.  He  would  go  to 
her  to  -  night.  He  could  reach  her 
in  a  few  hours,  and  they  would  come 
home  together. 

Graham  Lee  sighed  as  he  went  up 
stairs  that  night.  He  had  been  listening 
again  to  Mr.  Leiter's  experiences.  And 
they  were  such  interesting  ones! 

Graham  had  scoured  the  brass  railing 
at  the  museum  until  the  ^  last  man  left 
the  building,  but  he  had  not  had  any. 

He  had  not  been  able  to  learn  any 
thing  about  labor  conditions  or  to 
ameliorate  anything.  It  was  very  hard 
when  you  wanted  to  so  much. 


A  Doll 

BY    ALICE     MACGOWAN 

EVERY  time  the  wagon  went  to 
Antelope  from  Three  Sorrows 
ranch  the  little  girl  had  been 
promised  a  doll.  The  promise  was 
freshly  made  when  came  the  journey 
to  the  larger  and  more  distant  town 
of  Amarillo — a  business  trip,  but  father 
would  find  time  to  look  up  the  biggest 
doll  there  and  bring  it  to  her.  And 
again  the  childish  hope  was  disappointed; 
again  the  careless,  irresponsible,  doting 
father,  who  would  not  for  the  world 
have  struck  his  motherless  child  or  al 
lowed  any  pain  to  come  near  her  which 
he  could  himself  prevent,  unconsciously 
pierced  her  to  the  heart. 

But  now  the  long-talked-of  pilgrimage 
to  Fort  Worth  was  at  hand.  And  now 
father  was  actually  off;  and  now  the 
beautiful  doll  was  certain  to  come  home 
with  him! 

The  evening  of  Van  Brunt's  departure 


78  Harper's  Novelettes 

— and  every  evening  after  that  till  the 
momentous  one  which  brought  the  trav 
eller  back — Hilda  crept  up  into  the  lap 
of  old  Hank  Pearsall,  the  ranch  boss, 
to  tell  him  over  and  over  how  long  the 
doll  was  to  be,  how  blue  its  eyes,  how 
golden  its  hair,  and  what  pretty  tan 
shoes  and  white  kid  hands  it  should  have, 
what  dainty  garments  it  should  wear. 
The  old  cattleman  had  taken  the  forlorn 
pair — the  small  child  and  the  father,  a 
New  York  club-man,  almost  as  helpless 
as  she — into  his  big,  fond,  empty  heart. 
Of  Hilda  he  had  made  an  especial  pet, 
teaching  her  a  new  name  for  himself, 
and  adopting  the  title  of  Petty  as  his 
own  designation  for  her.  "  So  long, 
Uncle  Hank — oh,  every  bit  this  long! 
See?  And  blue  eyes — like  yours,  Uncle 
Hank;  not  black,  like  mine  and  papa's," 
she  would  urge. 

And  Uncle  Hank's  admired  blue  eyes 
would  dwell  upon  her  a  little  anxiously. 
His  last  words  to  the  young  employer 
as  he  handed  up  his  valise  at  the  train 
(he  had  driven  Van  Brunt  sixty  miles 
to  Antelope  himself)  were,  "And,  Char 
ley,  whatever  you  do,  for  the  love  o5 
goodness  don't  forget  Petty's  doll."  Now, 
shrinking  in  mind  from  the  thought  of 
that  possibility,  but  absolutely  incapable 


A  Doll  79 

of  communicating  his  dread  to  the  child, 
he  would  say: 

"  Um— Petty— w'y,  Fort  Worth,"  ye 
know— Fort  Worth  ain't  New  York.  Hit 
ain't  gwine  to  be  no  stavin'  big  doll;  no 
such  doll  as  you  had  before  you  come 
out  to  Texas.  I  don't  reckon  hit  '11  be — " 

Hastily  she  would  interrupt  him,  de 
claring,  vehemently,  "Oh,  Uncle  Hank, 
it's  goin'  to  be  very  beautiful!"  And 
once  more  the  eager,  excited,  childish 
tones  would  catalogue  the  list  of  the 
coming  doll's  charms. 

When  Charley  Van  Brunt  got  to  Fort 
Worth,  it  was  the  history  of  his  New 
York  life  over  again — that  life  from 
which  the  young  wife  had  thought  to 
save  him  when  she  fled  with  him  to  the 
big  Texas  Panhandle  ranch.  And  now 
there  was  the  added  pressure  upon  hia 
weakness  of  a  bereaved  and  forlorn  con 
dition — for  his  life  since  her  death  at 
Denver,  on  the  way  out,  had  been  a  thing 
unsupported;  moreover,  there  went  with 
him  the  depressing  knowledge  that  he 
was  making  failure  after  failure  at  the 
ranch.  He  was  to  have  been  gone  four 
days;  it  was  ten,  and  he  had  not  re 
turned.  There  had  been  an  address  left, 
that  of  the  hotel  where  he  should  stopa 
The  ranch  boss  wrote  again  and  again; 


8o  Harper's  Novelettes 

even  Hilda,  with  TJncle  Hank  guiding 
her  little  brown  fingers,  struggled  through 
a  small,  soiled  sheet  of  hieroglyphics 
And  when  there  was  no  answer,  the  old 
man  sent  Shorty,  one  of  the  cowboys, 
to  Antelope  with  a  telegram  prepareds 
entreating  an  immediate  reply.  But 
none  came.  No  message  of  any  kind 
came  hack  from  Fort  Worth.  Old  Hanks 
smiling  and  cheerful,  carried  a  very 
anxious  heart. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks  Van  Brunt 
came  home.  A  gentleman — oh,  most  cer 
tainly  a  gentleman,  always;  never  less 
than  that;  but  looking  strangely  shabby 
and  cut  of  countenance.  He  was  much 
thinner  than  when  he  went  away,  and 
much  less  sunburnt,  and  he  had  forgotten 
most  of  the  matters  which  had  taken  him, 
to  Fort  Worth. 

The  child,  who  for  days  back  had 
scouted  continually  the  long  box-elder 
avenue  leading  up  from  the  main  trail 
to  the  low  stone  ranch-house,  met  the 
buckboard  far  clown  below  the  big  gate. 
The  father  stopped  the  galloping  ponies 
with  an  arm  thrown  out  across  the 
driver's  hands,  caught  up  the  little  fig 
ure  and  hugged  her  warmly  to  his  heart, 
covering  her  small  face  with  kisses. 

she  think  daddy  had   just  run 


A  Doll  81 

away  and  left  them  all?  Well,  daddy 
was  very  busy;  he — he  had  such  a  lot 
of  tiresome  business."  And  reaching 
down  into  his  vest  pocket,  Van  Brunt 
brought  out  and  gave  to  the  child  a  five- 
dollar  gold  piece. 

In  silence  and  in  some  apprehension 
Hilda  looked  at  the  coin  lying  in  her 
little  brown  palm — as  unavailable  to  her, 
as  valueless  in  her  eyes,  as  a  yellow 
button.  He  had  given  it  as  though  it 
were  a  precious  thing;  and  Hilda  just 
glimpsed  the  terrible  thought  that  it 
might  be  meant  to  supersede  the  doll. 
No,  no — that  could  not  be — that  was  in 
tolerable!  She  pushed  the  idea  away 
from  her  as  she  sat  (so  quiet-seeming 
to  the  careless  eye,  but  in  truth  in  such 
a  tumult  of  choking  emotion)  upon  her 
father's  knee. 

Shyly  and  unobserved,  she  examined 
the  contents  of  the  buckboard.  There 
was  nothing  whatever  but  her  father's 
valise;  not  a  big  valise,  either,  and  her 
hopes  and  expectations  shrank.  It  would 
be  a  small  doll;  she  saw  that  she  must 
bring  her  desires  down  to  that,  and  she 
did  so.  But  she  asserted  passionately 
to  herself  that  it  was  there — it  was  in 
the  valise.  No  doll  at  all! — oh,  it  was 
impossible — it  was  not  conceivable!  She 


82  Harper *s  Novelettes 

shrank  in  panic  from  the  suggestion. 
Heaven  would  not  permit  such  a  cruel 
thing  as  that. 

Poor  little  girl!  The  Providence  of 
neglected  children  had  found  it  neces 
sary  to  deal  unto  Hilda's  lot  many  things 
which  the  unthinking  would  readily  call 
cruel;  yet  it  was  characteristic  of  her 
trusting,  hopeful  nature  that  she  be 
lieved  unfalteringly  in  the  goodness  of 
Heaven,  the  potency  of  her  star. 

Headquarters  reached,  old  Hank  came, 
and  Shorty  and  Buster — all  the  mas 
culine  household;  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  hesitating,  embarrassed  conversation; 
questions,  with  answers  eagerly  hasty 
and  voluble,  or  hesitant  and  awkward; 
long  pauses,  covered  by  an  uneasy  laugh 
or  some  irrelevant  statement  or  inquiry,, 

While  this  was  going  forward,  the 
child  stood  about,  in  one  obscure  corner 
and  another,  watching,  longing  for  the 
moment  when  that  wonderful  valise 
should  be  opened;  amazed  that  all  this 
delay,  this  waste  of  time  and  talk,  should 
be  indulged  in,  when  The  Important 
Things  of  Life  were  waiting  in  that 
mysterious  casket.  During  one  of  these 
uncomfortable  pauses  her  father's  trou 
bled  eye  caught  sight  of  the  little  figure 
lingering  at  the  door.  He  reached  for 


A  Doll  83 

her  and  lifted  her  high  in  his  strong 
arms,  saying,  laughingly: 

u  What  is  it  now,  my  small  daughter  ? 
Did  you  want  to  ask  daddy  something? 
Is  there  something  Hilda  wants  to  know 
of  father?" 

This  was  a  strange,  an  ominous  sort 
of  inquiry;  and  Hilda  could  barely  choke 
out  the  two  words,  "The  doll,"  in  such 
a  little,  whispering,  flatted  voice  as 
failed  to  make  its  way  across  the  short 
distance  from  her  trembling  lips  to  her 
father's  ear,  and  he  had  to  ask  her  over 
more  than  once. 

His  face  fell,  almost  comically.  A 
look  of  pain  and  shame  flashed  over  it. 
It  was  plain  (at  least  to  everybody  there 
except  poor  Hildegarde,  who  still  clutch 
ed  tightly  a  tiny  shred  of  hope)  that 
he  had  never  thought  of  the  matter 
since  the  moment  of  uttering  his  care 
less  promise. 

"Why,  dear,"  he  faltered,  painfully, 
setting  her  gently  down,  "I  completely 
for—" 

Old  Hank  Pearsall's  eyes  were  watch 
ing  her  in  deep  concern.  This  was  what 
he  had  dreaded.  Now  he  shook  his  head 
warningly  at  his  employer,  over  the  lit 
tle  girl's,  and  interrupted  in  a  curiously 
significant  tone: 


84  Harper's  Novelettes 


'y,  ye  see,  honey,  hit  '11  be  a-comm* 
along  with  the  freight  stuff  when  —  " 

"  ISTo,  Hank,"  broke  in  young  Van 
Brunt,  in  fresh  distress,  not  perceiving 
the  innocent  fiction,  but  supposing  that 
the  old  man  was  expecting  those  articles 
which  Charley  was  to  have  purchased  and 
shipped  to  the  ranch  —  "no,  Hank,  there 
aren't  any  things  coming  by  freight." 

It  was  too  late.  Hank  could  cover 
nothing  now;  the  bitter  truth  was  evi 
dent,  even  to  poor  Hilda's  incredulity, 
that  there  was  no  doll.  Her  father  drew 
her  to  him,  saying: 

"There,  there,  dear,  don't  cry!  Oh, 
Hildegarde,  love,  don't  cry!  I  can't  —  " 
His  face  was  very  white,  and  he  looked 
near  to  tears  himself. 

"  No,  papa  —  no,  papa,"  she  whispered, 
—  "no,  papa,  I  won't  cry;"  then  crept 
away  like  a  timid,  gentle,  self-respecting 
child,  to  have  her  agony  alone.  And 
hidden  in  her  own  private  nook,  in  an 
unused  room  up-stairs,  the  spare  little 
body  was  shaken  by  paroxysms  of  sobs, 
until  there  finally  fell  upon  her  the  kind 
sleep  of  exhaustion.  The  affairs  of  the 
house  went  on;  supper  was  served  and 
passed,  the  father  inquiring  anxiously 
of  the  child's  whereabouts,  and  being 
diplomatically  diverted  by  Uncle  Hank. 


A  Doll  85 

Hilda  suddenly  opened  her  eyes  upon 
the  darkness.  It  was  night.  She  was 
lying  dressed  upon  the  lounge  in  the 
sitting-room;  somebody  had  taken  off  her 
shoes  and  tucked  some  covering  over  her. 
She  had  the  strange  feeling  which  people 
have  when  they  go  to  sleep  irregularly,  at 
some  unusual  time  and  place,  not  dressed 
for  bed. 

For  a  moment  she  was  dazed  and  re 
membered  nothing;  then  her  sorrow  came 
rushing  back  upon  her  in  a  flood.  But 
the  aftermath  of  grief  was  tearless;  poor 
baby !  she  had  wept  the  fountain  dry. 

Now,  as  she  lay,  inert  and  spent  by  a 
woe  quite  as  real  and  ravaging  as  the 
more  sophisticated  sorrow  of  the  older 
soul,  she  heard  a  murmur  of  voices; 
they  were  men's  voices.  Rising,  strange 
ly  stiff  and  weary,  she  crawled  to  the 
door  and  peered  silently  through.  The 
room  into  which  she  looked  was  the 
business  office  of  the  Three  Sorrows; 
and  the  scene  which  met  her  wondering 
eyes  was  a  strange  one.  Into  the  office 
had  been  carried  that  sewing-machine 
which  the  child's  mother  had  purchased 
and  prepared  to  take  with  her  household 
supplies  to  the  Texas  ranch.  Sitting  be 
fore  it,  and  beneath  the  strong  light  of 
the  hanging  lamp,  was  old  Hank  Pear- 


86  Harper's  Novelettes 

sail,  in  full  cow-puncher  regalia,  just  as 
he  had  come  in  off  the  range  that  eve 
ning.  The  broad  brim  of  his  sombrero  was 
swept  directly  up  off  his  face,  to  be  out 
of  the  way;  the  grizzled  curls  lay  on  the 
collar  of  his  rough  blue  flannel  shirt; 
and  his  trousers  were  tucked  into  the 
tops  of  cowboy  boots,  whose  high  heels 
clicked  upon  the  treadles,  armed  with 
long-shanked  spurs.  His  sinewy  brown 
hands  'were  twisting  a  thread  to  induce 
it  to  go  through  the  eye  of  the  needle. 
Bending  anxiously  over  him  was  her 
father,  and  about  the  feet  of  both  a 
tremendous  litter  of  articles  very  foreign 
to  that  environment. 

There  were  yards  of  white  muslin  and 
sheets  of  newspaper,  cut  into  singular 
shapes;  on  the  floor  a  bed-comforter — 
the  pink  silk  one  off  the  big  front-room 
bed — rent  open  and  with  its  snowy  cot 
ton  bulging  out ;  beside  it  an  Angora  goat 
skin  with  exceptionally  long  fleece.  As 
the  child  crouched  silently  at  the  door, 
the  men  were  talking  in  low,  guarded 
tones.  Her  father  spoke  first: 

"Can  you  make  it,  Hank?  I  don't 
know  what  I  did  that  was  wrong,  but  it 
ran  crooked  and  puckered,  even  before 
it  broke  the  thread." 

"Uh-huh!"    returned    the    old    man, 


A  Doll  87 

genially.  "  She's  liable  to  buck  a  little 
at  fust;  but  ef  ye  don't  spur  her  in  the 
shoulder  nor  fight  her  in  the  face,  she'll 
soon  travel  your  gait.  See?"  For  the 
machine  had  settled  down  to  a  steady 
purr.  "  Gimme  somepin'  to  sew — any 
thing,  to  try  it  on." 

The  child  saw  her  father  duck  his  sleek 
black  head  to  pick  up  a  scrap  from  the 
floor.  Then  she  heard  his  laughing  voice : 

"  Pearsall,  I  believe  those  long-shanked 
spurs  of  yours  are  what  tamed  down 
this  bucking  sewing-machine.  I  didn't 
have  mine  on." 

"  Sho !"  whispered  the  old  man,  bend 
ing  to  unbuckle.  "  That  beats  my  time ! 
I  plumb  forgot  them  spurs.  Don't  blame 
ye  a  mite  for  laughin'.  That's  an  old  cow- 
puncher  every  time.  Hit's  a  wonder  I 
didn't  try  to  ride  in  here  on  a  cuttin' 
pony,  with  my  guns  on,  and  what  you  call 
a  '  lariat '  swingin' !  Sho !" 

He  removed  the  big  hat,  dropped  the 
jingling  spurs  into  its  crown,  and  laid  it 
back  on  the  desk,  then  straightened  up,  a 
benignant  figure,  strangely  incongruous, 
subduing  his  great  bulk  and  strength  to 
this  little  feminine  employment. 

While  the  small,  anxious  watcher  at 
the  door  looked,  in  a  maze  of  astonish 
ment,  almost  doubting  if  she  were  really 


88  Harper's  Novelettes 

awake,  Uncle  Hank's  soft  voice  spoke 
again,  evidently  in  continuation  of  some 
thing  that  had  gone  before : 

"  H'm — promises !  You  promised  her 
the  time  you  went  to  Amarillo  'at  you'd 
bring  her  sech  a  doll  as  ye  could  git 
there.  Ye  forgot  it  then.  Ye  forgot  it 
this  time.  Ye  see,  Charley,  to  her  ye're 
jest  the  feller  that  promises  to  bring 
dolls — and  forgits." 

Poor  Charley  Van  Brunt!  This  ac 
cusation  struck  home  to  his  remorseful 
heart  much  harder  than  the  kindly 
speaker  had  meant  it  should.  He  had 
been  all  his  life  promising  to  bring  his 
friends  dolls — and  forgetting.  Dolls  of 
repentance,  of  reformation  and  amend 
ment,  clad  in  shining  garments  of 
achievement,  he  promised;  but  the  valise 
came  ever  home  empty. 

He  spoke  now :  "  If  we  fail,  out  and 
out,  at  this  doll-factory  business,  you — 
of  course  she  won't  believe  me,  Hank; 
you're  right  about  that — but  you  tell  her, 
you  promise  her  that — " 

"  Ain't  gwine  to  promise  her  nothin', 
Charley.  Ef  you  leave  it  to  me,  w'y, 
I  say  either  dance  up  with  the  doll  for 
her  birthday,  or  don't  insult  the  pore 
baby  with  any  more  promises — " 

"Her  birthday!"     It  was  her  father's 


A  Doll  89 

voice  that  spoke,  and  in  it  there  was  a 
note  of  blank  amaze.  "Well,  Pearsall! 
Do  you  know  I'd  forgotten  absolutely 
that  it  was  the  child's  birthday?" 

Uncle  Hank's  blue  eyes  glanced  up 
for  an  instant  at  the  young  father,  with 
a  look  that  was  incomprehensible  to  the 
child. 

Van  Brunt,  however,  did  not  catch 
this  glance;  his  attention  was  given 
elsewhere.  And  now  he  spoke  in  a  de 
pressed  voice :  "  Well,  this  thing  isn't 
going  to  do — not  near.  We'll  have  to 
make  a  long  improvement  over  this;" 
and  he  picked  up  an  atomy — a  thing  in 
human  form — of  a  livid  blue-white,  like 
a  leper,  and  of  ghastly  outline,  warped 
where  the  ill -guided  machine  had 
wavered.  The  being  had  a  small,  narrow, 
conical  head,  a  neck  like  a  pipe-stem, 
and  limbs  long,  attenuated,  and  lumpy 
where  they  had  been  stuffed  hard  with 
cotton  rammed  home  by  the  help  of  pen- 
handles,  in  an  attempt  to  round  out  the 
starved  proportions. 

The  child  looked  at  this  spectre  in 
dismay.  Truly,  it  did  fall  short  of  grace 
— even  of  decent  seemliness.  She  was 
glad  her  father  thought  so.  She  did  not 
want  them  to  give  her  that  creature, 
whose  looks  she  could  not  help  loathing, 


go  Harper's  Novelettes 

however  good  tKeir  intentions  might  be. 
She  felt  sure  that  she  could  never  pro 
duce  a  grateful  countenance,  or  bring 
forth  any  satisfactory  thanks,  for  such 
a  travesty  of  dollhood  as  that. 

But  there  seemed  to  be  no  danger  of 
such  an  exigency. 

"  She'll  have  a  doll  for  her  birthday," 
repeated  old  Hank. 

"  I  don't  know,"  deprecated  her  father. 
"You  see,  Hank,  we  haven't  any  of  the 
things—" 

"Haven't  we?  W'y,  Charley,  here's  a 
sewin'-machine,  an'  cotton,  an'  domestic, 
an'  all  the  needcessary  materials.  As 
for  a  pattern,  w'y,  you've  got  me  to  go 
by,  an'  I've  got  you,  in  sech  matters  as 
the  mere  number  an'  placin'  on  of  arms 
an'  legs  an'  sech." 

He  glanced  at  the  object  in  young 
Van  Brunt's  hands.  "I  reckon  ye  went 
mostly  by  me — in  the — the — geography 
o'  that  critter.  Gosh!  Charley,  hit's  a 
plumb  straddle-bug,  an'  whopper-jawed 
at  that!  Now — here — I  have  went  more 
by  you."  (The  sentences  came  out  in 
sections  and  irregular  fragments,  through 
many  pins  and  needles  and  other  small 
implements  which  Hank  held  in  his 
mouth.)  "  We've  got  to  cut  'em  tol'able 
fat,  or  they  stuff  too  slim;  I  see  that. 


A  Doll  91 

This"— he  chuckled  softly— "this  is  a 
purty  fa'r  Van  Brunt,  if  that'n  is  a 
Pearsall — an'  a  Pearsall  I  don't  want  to 
acknowledge.  She's  ready  for  clo'es  now." 

"I'll  bring  some  of  my  things,"  Van 
Brunt  suggested. 

Hank  looked  dubious.  "Hit's  lady 
fixin's,  flubdubs,  we  want.  I  don't  s'pose 
a  man's  riggin's  would — " 

"A  man's  riggin's!"  echoed  Van 
Brunt,  laughingly.  "You  just  wait  a 
minute!"  and  he  was  gone. 

The  child  hung  miserably  watching; 
her  already  overburdened  heart  Bank  at 
the  thought  of  the  morrow.  That  she 
should  fail  to  offer  some  sort  of  gratitude 
for  these  well-meant  efforts  on  her  be 
half  never  occurred  to  her.  That  awful 
gulf  which  yawns  between  the  child's 
point  of  view  and  that  of  the  adult 
gaped  black  at  her  feet;  yet  she  was 
loyally  resolved  to  bridge  it,  when  the 
time  came,  with  such  show  of  enthusiasm 
as  she  could  muster. 

Uncle  Hank  pursed  up  his  lips,  looked 
very  fiercely  at  the  needle  which  he  held 
at  considerable  distance  from  his  face, 
laid  his  head  aslant,  and  finally  threaded 
the  needle's  eye.  Then  he  evidently 
propped  the  product  which  he  had  styled 
"  a  f  a'r  Van  Brunt " — or  so  much  of  it 


92  Harper's  Novelettes 

as  was  completed1 — against  the  sliding 
top  of  the  big  desk,  and  shaking  a  finger 
at  her,  began  to  sew  upon  small  white 
objects,  glancing  occasionally  over  his 
spectacles  toward  the  doll,  murmuring 
to  her: 

"  Now  ye  set  thar,  Miss — well,  what  is 
your  blessed  name? — Miss  Bon  Ton — 
Miss  High  Stepper — Miss  Tip  Top — and 
mind  how  ye  shoot  off  yer  mouth  to 
morrow.  Ye  want  to  be  mighty  cl'ar  on 
one  p'int,  and  that  is  that  ye  came  from 
Fort  Worth.  Pa  was  jest  savin'  a  little 
surprise  when  he  failed  to  mention  ye 
to  Petty  to-day.  You  was  right  thar  in 
that  grip  o'  his'n  all  the  time;  so  don't 
let  me  hear  no  remarks  about  white  do 
mestic,  nor  Charley's  paint-box,  nor 
Uncle  Hank's  40  thread.  Mind  what 
I'm  tellin'  ye,  Miss  Tip  Top;  we  don't 
want  a  word  of  and  concernin'  the  spar'- 
room  bed-comforter.  Fort  Worth's  whar 
you  come  from — Fort  Worth — a-bringin' 
the  latest  fashions  in  young-lady  dolls — 
and  Petty's  not  to  be  told  things." 

Such  fond  and  foolish  reckoning  on 
her  delight  in  the  birthday  doll!  It  was 
a  relief  to  Hilda  when,  a  moment  later, 
her  father  came  back,  his  own  face  that 
of  a  delighted  child,  his  hands  full  of 
rich  spoils.  Old  Hank  put  up  his  glasses, 


A  Doll  93 

and  together  the  men  examined,  com 
mented,  planned. 

"Look,  Pearsall — here  are  the  petti 
coats  and  such  like,"  spreading  out  hand 
kerchiefs  of  exquisite  linen  cambric. 
"And  these" — unfurling  two  brocaded 
white  satin  mufflers  a  yard  or  more 
square — "these  two  are  exactly  alike; 
there's  enough  stuff  in  'em  to  make  her 
a  frock.  And" — he  put  down  several 
four-in-hand  ties — "  there  are  two  of 
these  hlue  ones  alike,  enough  of  a  kind 
to  make  the  dolly  a  sash." 

"Yes,  that's  right,  Charley;  I'll  make 
her  a  surcingle  of  these  blue  ones — the 
Fort  Worth  doll  was  to  have  had  a 
blue  surcingle." 

Suddenly  a  look  of  perplexity,  almost 
of  consternation,  spread  over  old  Hank's 
face.  "Great  Scott!  Charley.  D'ye 
know  that  that  there  doll  was  a-goin' 
to  have  white  kid  hands  and  tan  shoes 
on  its  feet — tan  shoes!  Now  where  in 
all  Texas—" 

With  a  whispered  "Hold  on!"  Van 
Brunt  was  out  of  the  room  once  more, 
and  soon  back  with  a  pair  of  handsome 
heavy  tan  driving-gloves  in  one  hand, 
in  the  other  a  pair  of  white  ones.  Uncle 
Hank's  eyes  were  fastened  upon  them 
with  a  pleased  look;  but  he  hesitated, 


94  Harper's  Novelettes 

glancing  at  their  owner  deprecatingly. 

"  Them's  mighty  good  gloves,  Charley, 
to—" 

"  I  hope  to  Heaven  they  are !  The  Lord 
grant  they  are  worthy  to  make  good  a 
man's  broken  promise — a  fellow's  dis 
credited  word." 

Uncle  Hank  did  not  gainsay  this,  and 
the  two  wrought  for  a  time  silently,  the 
small  watcher  at  the  door  drawing  her 
breath  softly  lest  it  betray  her  presence. 

Suddenly  the  elder  man  began  to 
speak:  "Ye  see,  Charley,  I  was  a  wid- 
der's  boy — the  oldest;  an'  the  mother  she 
used  to  make  doll-babies  for  the  young 
ones.  I  have  sot  up  o'  nights  before 
now  to  work  this  hyer  sort  o'  racket. 
But  mammy  an'  me  we  couldn't  paint — 
nair  one  of  us — not  a  bit.  A  lead- 
pencil  or  pen  an'  ink;  eyes  and  nose 
and  mouth — laid  out  mighty  flat  an' 
square,  I'm  bound  to  say — 'twas  all  the 
face  them  dolls  of  our'n  ever  got.  The 
ha'r  was  ginerally  ink,  too.  The  best  we 
could  do  in  that  line  would  be  some 
onra veiled  tow  rope.  This  here  Miss 
High  Stepper's  face  an*  ha'r  are  simply 
the  finest  ever." 

"Yes,  she's  all  right,"  agreed  Charley, 
thankfully. 

"You  bet  she  is!"  repeated  the  other. 


A  Doll  95 

As  he  spoke  tHe  old  man  moved  aside  a 
little,  and  Hilda  caught  her  breath  in  a 
gasp  of  incredulous  rapture.  What 
radiant  creature  was  this  Uncle  Hank 
held  forth,  turning  his  head  to  look  at 
it  aslant,  half  questioning,  half  pleased? 

Muslin  had  furnished  the  ground  tone 
for  its  delicate  complexion.  Charles  Van 
Brunt's  color-hox  and  brushes,  guided 
by  his  clever  brain  and  fingers,  had 
placed  thereon  not  the  inane  counte 
nance  of  the  store  doll,  but  the  laughing, 
roguish  face  of  a  gay  soubrette.  Heavily 
black-fringed  blue  eyes  looked  out  at  you 
with  delightful  significance.  The  lips 
smiled  saucily.  The  long-fleeced  Angora 
goat-pelt  had  yielded  a  head  of  stream 
ing  crinkled  tresses,  which  (after  an  in 
terview  with  the  color-box)  showed  a 
lovely  gamboge  tint.  Head  and  body 
were  fairly  proportioned  and  well- 
shapen;  any  slight  inaccuracies  were 
more  than  compensated  for  by  her  ~beaute 
du  diable. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  that?" 
cried  the  young  father,  boyishly.  "  Say, 
she's  a  corker,  Hank!" 

The  child's  fascinated  eyes  were 
dragged  resolutely  from  the  beautiful, 
smiling  water-color  face.  Uncle  Hank 
wished  her  to  know  nothing  of  the  doll, 

7 


96  Harper's  Novelettes 

to  be  surprised;  and  with  a  last  doting 
glance  which  caressed  its  perfections  she 
moved  noiselessly  back  across  the  big 
dark  sitting-room,  shivering  but  ecstatic. 
Oh,  how  different  a  creature  from  the 
bereaved  little  soul  that  had  crossed  that 
room,  leaden-footed,  sore-hearted,  but  a 
few  moments  back!  She  drew  her  slim 
legs  up  deliciously  under  the  warm 
covers  that  seemed  to  close  about  her 
like  the  very  arms  of  love  themselves, 
and  with  a  deep  sigh  of  perfect  peace 
relaxed  her  comforted  spirit  to  sleep. 

The  long  hours  of  darkness  wore  away 
thus;  Hildegarde  lying  in  a  sleep  pro 
found  and  dreamless;  in  the  other  room 
the  two  men,  both  so  very  masculine  in 
their  different  ways,  working  the  night 
through  at  this  woman's  employment — 
this  childish  task  of  making  and  dressing 
a  doll-baby.  For  the  most  part  they 
wrought  at  their  strange  occupation  in 
deep  silence.  Occasionally  upon  the 
stillness  one  or  the  other  of  the  big 
musical  bass  voices  would  rumble  out 
some  observation  or  some  question;  a 
tiny  garment  or  bit  of  tentative  anatomy 
would  be  held  up  with  an  inquiring  look, 
regarded  with  anxious  solicitude,  and  ap 
proved  or  condemned.  Once  there  was  a 
sudden  laugh,  as  abruptly  smothered. 


A  Doll  97 

So  the  night  passed.  The  pallor  of 
dawn  was  upon  the  open  plain  without 
when  the  enterprise  was  brought  to  a 
triumphant  conclusion,  both  workers 
pretty  well  tired  out,  but  happy.  All 
traces  of  their  nocturnal  activities  were 
carefully  removed. 

When,  presently,  the  sun  rose  out  of 
the  straight  line  of  eastern  horizon  and 
sent  long  level  rays  to  inquire  in  at 
the  windows  of  Three  Sorrows  ranch- 
house,  it  discovered  the  Fort  Worth  doll 
to  be  a  fact — a  thing  consummate  and 
unique.  And  when,  some  hours  later, 
Hilda  wakened — this  time  on  her  own 
bed  in  her  own  room,  whither  she  had 
been  carried  and  undressed  in  that  sound 
sleep — she  found  this  radiant  creature 
sitting  upon  a  table  beside  her  pillow. 

Save  for  the  presence  of  the  doll  her 
self,  the  child  could  never  have  believed 
but  that  the  vision  of  last  night  was  a 
dream.  When  subsequently  Uncle  Hank 
explained  to  her,  with  her  father's  as 
sistance,  that  the  beautiful  Fort  Worth 
doll  had  been  a  surprise  withheld  from 
her  the  day  before  because  it  was  to 
grace  her  birthday,  she  accepted  the 
explanation  with  a  look  and  manner 
singular  even  for  Hilda.  There  was  a 
something  exultant  in  her  bearing  and 


98  Harper's  Novelettes 

in  her  thought.  Uncle  Hank  was  not 
telling  her  the  truth.  It  was  not  so,  that 
father  had  hrought  the  doll.  But  her 
imaginative  soul  seized  instantly  upon 
the  spirit  of  the  thing.  All  statements 
— and  they  were  voluminous — concern 
ing  the  importation  and  handling  of 
Miss  High  Stepper  she  understood  to 
be  figurative.  This  was  not  fact  to 
which  she  was  listening;  it  was  poetry 
— parable,  and  she  answered  in  parable 
of  her  own. 

She  kissed  them  both  passionately,  and 
hugged  the  pretty  doll  to  her  with  tears 
and  with  laughter,  dwelling  ardently 
upon  each  personal  beauty  and  each  sep 
arate  elegance  of  attire;  the  arch,  lovely 
eyes,  the  dainty  tan  shoes — all  from  Fort 
Worth;  that  is  to  say,  all  found  and 
purchased  in,  and  brought  to  Hilda  out 
of,  the  Country  of  Love  and  Good  Faith. 


The   Seeds   of  Time 

BY   GRACE  LATHROP  COLLIN 

NOW  that  Mary  Ann's  hand  lay  in 
Miss    Ophelia's,    nothing   was    of 
real  import.     Only  the  impress  of 
the  morning's  tribulations  remained,  and 
the  clasp  of  the  little  girl's  plump  brown 
fingers  upon  the  slender  white  ones  be 
tokened  agitation  as  well  as  affection. 

In  the  month  of  May  in  the  early 
fifties,  Mary  Ann  Dodd  came  from  the 
country  to  visit  her  town-bred  cousins. 
In  the  gig  her  foot-rest  was  a  small  black 
leather  trunk,  embossed  with  M.  A.  D. 
in  brass  nail-heads.  Within  its  chintz- 
lined  walls  was  her  wardrobe;  and  the 
glory  of  her  wardrobe  was  dozen  upon 
dozen  of  pantalets.  Pantalets  of  common 
yellow  nankeen  for  mornings,  pantalets 
hemstitched  for  afternoons,  but  for 
Sundays  pantalets  embroidered  in  deep 
points.  These  last,  starched  to  paper- 
like  stiffness  and  ironed  flat,  lay  com 
pressed  and  inconspicuous;  but  applied 


ioo  Harper's  Novelettes 

with  broadside  effect  upon  her  small 
plump  person  provided,  in  Mary  Ann's 
estimation,  no  mean  adjunct  to  her  cos 
tume.  Yet  on  this  the  first  Sunday 
morning,  when  the  tribe  of  Dodd  was 
gathered  in  the  front  hall,  the  twins,  her 
cousins  and  compeers,  appeared  in  Rob 
Roy  poplins  whose  hems  touched  their 
gaiters.  The  pantaletted  interval  was  a 
thing  of  the  past. 

"  I  suppose  in  the  country  the  news 
hasn't  reached  you,"  said  a  twin.  "Yes, 
pantalets  are  going  out.  Mother  won't 
let  us  change  our  skirts  for  school  yet — 
only  for  best.  But  I  wouldn't  mind  if  I 
was  you.  Everybody  will  know  you're 
from  the  country  and  will  understand." 

Beneath  the  brown  -  striped  barege 
Mary  Ann's  bosom  swelled  stormily. 
Holding  speech  with  none,  she  retreated 
from  landing  to  landing  up  the  stairs. 
And  when  in  the  soft  jangle  of  the  First 
and  Second  Congregational  Church  bells 
the  Dodd  corps  joined  the  army  of  church 
goers,  Mary  Ann  walked  pantaletless. 

It  was  the  sight  of  her  shadow  follow 
ing  her  obliquely  on  garden  palings  that 
disconcerted  her  independent  mood. 
From  knee  to  ankle  her  fat  little  legs, 
distorted  to  impossible  length,  crossed 
and  recrossed  in  winking  shadows.  Her 


The  Seeds  of  Time  101 

face  grew  pinker  than  the  pink  cambric 
lining  of  her  white  netted  bonnet. 
Would  the  church  steps  never  be  reached  ? 
Then  where  was  the  Dodd  pew?  Oh 
dear,  'way  up  under  the  pulpit!  And 
would  the  Dodds  never,  never  decide 
upon  the  alternate  distribution  of  re 
sponsible  and  irresponsible  children  and 
file  in  to  their  places?  Standing  in  the 
church  aisle,  the  little  girl's  cup  of  abash 
ment  was  so  full  that  it  was  about  to 
overflow  in  tears,  when  a  silver-gray 
gloved  hand  was  laid  upon  her  shoulder, 
a  face  with  a  pearly  radiance  beamed 
upon  her,  and  she  was  led  into  the  pew 
behind  the  Dodds. 

"  Thank  you  so  much,  Ophelia,"  Mrs. 
Dodd  said,  proffering  a  peppermint  to 
the  youngest  Dodd. 

The  long  green  rep  cushion  stretched 
unoccupied  to  the  pew's  end,  where  sat 
a  fine,  erect  old  gentleman,  who  did  not 
alter  the  pose  of  his  head.  Mary  Ann 
was  instructed  in  the  decorum  that  or 
dained  her  place  to  be  equidistant  on 
this  expanse,  and  prepared  to  obey.  But 
the  lovely  lady  kept  Mary  Ann's  hand, 
and  as  they  sat  down,  the  dove  silk  skirt, 
gathered  in  at  the  pointed  bodice,  flowed 
out,  submerging  Mary  Ann's  brown  frock 
in  its  shining  folds. 


102          Harper's  Novelettes 

With  the  hand-clasp  as  token  of  favor, 
the  ordeal  of  meeting  the  other  little 
girls  in  Miss  Ophelia's  Sunday-school 
class  was  endurable.  For  they  were  all 
united  in  the  tender  romance  of  little 
girlhood — the  admiration  for  that  del 
icate  ensample  of  young  ladyhood  which 
Miss  Ophelia  presented.  They  shared 
a  pride  in  the  ethereal  perfection  of 
her  costume,  which  in  the  far  -  distant 
grown-up  future,  they  promised  them 
selves,  they  would  imitate,  regardless  of 
fleeting  fashions.  A  phrase,  a  tone,  a 
gesture,  was  dipped  in  perfection  if  used 
by  her.  An  affectation — particularly  the 
smile  with  eyelashes  interlaced — became 
a  pattern.  Many  were  the  round  faces 
that  tried  to  catch  the  expression  that 
lent  the  final  touch  of  appeal  to  the  long, 
pale  oval  of  Ophelia  Oakley's  face. 

In  the  Sunday-school  programme  each 
recurring  May  brought  a  recurring  study 
of  the  Book  of  Jonah.  "  They  that  ob 
serve  lying  vanities,  forsake  their  own 
mercy  "  fell  to  Mary  Ann  in  the  assign 
ment  of  verses  about  the  class.  Mary 
Ann's  a?sthetic  admiration  for  one  whose 
gown  fell  in  so  gracious  an  amplitude 
deepened  into  reverence  for  one  whose 
considerateness  apportioned  a  statement 
so  brief  yet  so  significant.  Miss  Ophelia 


The  Seeds  of  Time  103 

meanwhile  felt  among  her  gown's  mys 
terious  folds  and  drew  from  her  pocket 
a  small  ivory  image.  With  ohs  and  ahs 
the  little  girls  gathered  round.  "  These 
were  the  idols  bowed  down  to  hy  the 
people  to  whom  Jonah  was  sent,"  said 
she.  "My  uncle  brought  it  home  from 
China.  He  thought  it  only  amusing. 
But  it  always  distressed  my  mother.  My 
father  keeps  it  in  his  desk  drawer."  Miss 
Ophelia's  goodness,  as  she  sat  before  them 
with  opened  Bible  in  shimmering  silken 
lap  and  sardonic  image  in  slender  palm, 
was  of  another  order  from  the  good 
ness  of  their  mothers  in  tending  the 
little  girls  in  measles  and  whooping- 
cough.  It  was  a  quality  peculiar  to  her 
young  ladyhood — a  virtue  in  combina 
tion  with  the  mother-of-pearl  tints  of 
her  temples. 

At  dismissal,  Mary  Ann  felt  a  reas 
suring  touch  upon  her  hand.  "  The  little 
newcomer  must  see  my  garden,"  Miss 
Ophelia  said.  While  the  Dodd  twins 
walked  before  with  tilted  heads  and 
swaying  skirts,  Mary  Ann  was  ushered 
in  at  a  white  gate  that  swung  on  a  ball 
and  chain  and  clicked  behind  them.  The 
garden  had  little  yet  to  show  but  spring 
time  greenery,  the  red  leaf-buds  of  rose 
bushes,  and  a  fragile  array  of  narcissus. 


IO4  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  white  shell-bordered  beds,  circles 
and  crescents,  lay  in  mounds  of  fresh- 
turned  soil.  In  mute  gratitude,  Mary 
Ann  recognized  the  garden  as  a  pretext. 
Once  the  churchly  procession  had  passed, 
she  would  scamper  unobserved  back  to 
the  Dodd  house,  and  up  the  stairs  to  her 
room  and  the  blessed  contents  of  her 
trunk.  The  lovely  lady  was  as  good  as 
she  was  beautiful. 

"  The  lily  -  of  -  the  -  valley  bed  is  my 
pride,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  and  encom 
passed  by  the  swaying  silk  folds,  the  child 
accompanied  her  across  the  sunny  ynrd 
to  the  L  standing  in  shadow.  The  L 
had  a  door  of  its  own,  and  a  window  on 
each  side.  It  was  a  smaller  edition  of 
the  house,  white-walled  and  green-blinded. 
There  was  no  sign  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  Judge  Oakley's  law-office,  but  even 
recently  arrived  little  Mary  Ann  felt  that 
he  would  know  little  who  knew  not  that. 
Close  to  the  white-painted  brick  founda 
tion,  and  marked  off  as  if  by  the  oblong 
of  shade  cast  by  the  L,  lay  the  lily-of- 
the-valley  bed. 

The  gate  clicked  again,  and  Mary  Ann, 
shrinking  into  the  amplitude  of  Miss 
Ophelia's  skirt,  watched  a  man  cross  the 
garden.  To  her  mind  there  was  a  gal 
lantry  in  his  striding  up  the  path  and 


The  Seeds  of  Time  105 

leaping  the  crescent-shaped  bed.  There 
was  a  courtliness  in  the  flash  of  the  ring 
on  his  finger  as  he  brought  his  hat  in 
semicircle  to  his  knee.  Such  an  at 
tendant  was  the  appendage  that  com 
pleted  Miss  Ophelia  as  a  paragon. 

The  child's  brown  face,  in  its  pink  and 
white  fluted  border,  was  upturned  to  the 
conversation  that  was  carried  on  above 
her  head.  To  her  the  words  had  little 
significance.  But  the  tones  of  the  two 
voices  preserved  her  ideal  of  romantic 
intercourse.  He  was  schooled  to  wait  for 
Miss  Ophelia's  replies,  and  then  was 
given  but  a  word  or  two.  Sometimes  the 
masculine  voice,  after  many  inflections, 
paused  to  receive  in  return  only  a  few 
notes  of  Miss  Ophelia's  laugh.  In  an 
swer  to  one  speech  of  his,  she  handed 
him  the  ivory  image,  and  he,  tucking  his 
shining  hat  under  his  arm,  turned  the 
little  object  about  in  his  fingers,  smiling 
the  while. 

"  So  you  keep  him  under  lock  and  key 
in  the  dark,"  he  said.  "  That's  what  hap 
pens  in  this  town  to  outlandish  fellows, 
even  if  in  their  native  land  they  think 
they  are  gods.  Ah,  well,  Miss  Oakley,  in 
our  hearts  we  know  we're  only  poor  mor 
tals,  unworthy  of  a  touch  of  your  hand, 
a  glance  of  your  eye.  But  don't  think 


io6  Harper's  Novelettes 

too  hardly  of  us  when  we  are  absent  and 
cannot  defend  ourselves.  I  could  not  go 
without  bidding  you  good-by.  Yes — 

" '  My  boat  is  on  the  shore 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea.' " 

"Your  boat?" 

"  Well,  not  literally.  I  travel  by  stage. 
But  Byron  gives  the  spirit." 

"Byron?" 

"Ah,  he'd  be  kept  in  the  desk  drawer 
too,  I  fear."  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  Will 
you  give  me  a  flower — a  lily  ?" 

She  stooped  in  the  wide  circle  of  her 
skirts  and  broke  a  stem  of  white  bells  in 
its  green  sheath.  She  held  it  out  to  him 
with  downcast  eyes.  As  he  took  it  from 
her  hand,  he  kissed  her  full  upon  the  lips. 

"Oh!"  cried  Miss  Ophelia,  shrinking 
back  against  Mary  Ann.  "  Oh !" 

Mary  Ann  looked  on,  interested  but 
unconcerned.  He  had  given  her  a  kiss 
in  return  for  the  flower.  She,  Mary 
Ann,  would  do  the  same. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  frighten  you," 
he  said.  "  Wait.  Next  spring  when 
the  lilies  -  of  -  the  -  valley  come,  I  will 
not  forget." 

He  strode  across  the  garden  and,  bare 
headed,  held  the  gate  wide  for  the  Judge, 
who  entered,  barely  acknowledging  the 


The  Seeds  of  Time  107 

salute.  In  church  the  Judge  had  not 
even  looked  at  Mary  Ann.  He  must  be 
jealous,  thought  the  little  girl,  of  all 
Miss  Ophelia's  admirers. 

The  very  air,  on  a  morning  in  the 
succeeding  May,  was  pinched  and  blue. 
The  garden-plots  looked  denuded  instead 
of  unapparelled.  The  thorny  branches  of 
the  rose-bushes  rasped  against  each  oth 
er.  A  covering,  even  of  snow,  would 
have  seemed  welcome.  Miss  Ophelia,  her 
shoulders  muffled  in  a  white  shawl,  and 
with  fingers  too  chill  for  dexterity,  was 
tending  the  lily-of-the-valley  bed. 

In  that  austere  atmosphere  the  jingle 
of  sleigh-bells  from  up  the  street  sounded 
plausible  enough.  But  Miss  Ophelia 
knew  that  the  sound  signified  the  ap 
proach  of  the  dealer  in  spices,  who  each 
year  made  the  tour  of  the  local  towns. 
"  We  are  supplied,"  she  called  over  her 
shoulder  as  the  jingle  dropped  into  an 
occasional  clang  before  the  Oakley  gate. 
Surprised,  she  heard  the  click  of  the 
latch,  and  rose  to  see  the  "spice  man" 
holding  out  a  box  to  her. 

"The  stage-driver  passed  this  over  to 
me,"  said  he. 

"  Why,  where  does  it  come  from  ?" 

"  There  wa'n't  any  message." 


io8  Harper's  Novelettes 

She  opened  the  box,  a  wooden  one, 
with  a  hasp  that  swung  in  a  circle. 
Within  was  a  crowded  mat  of  lilies-of- 
the-valley. 

Judge  Oakley  came  to  his  office  win 
dow.  "  What  have  you  there,  Ophelia  ?" 
he  questioned,  judicially. 

"  Lilies-of-the-valley,  father." 

"  Coals  to  Newcastle,  I  should  say. 
Who  sends  'em?" 

Her  fingers  penetrated  every  inter 
stice  of  the  flower  stems.  "  There's  no 
name,  father." 

"  You've  dropped  your  shawl." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  need  it."  She  caught  it 
up  by  a  corner,  and  with  the  box  clasped 
close,  crossed  the  garden.  At  the  gate 
Mrs.  Dodd,  summoned  by  the  bells,  was 
parleying  with  the  spice  man. 

"  Good  morning,  Ophelia,"  she  turned 
to  say.  "  How  well  you  are  looking !" 

"  It's  such  a  lovely  day." 

"  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  you  with 
so  much  color." 

"  I've  been  working  in  the  garden. 
By  the  way,"  she  continued,  evasively, 
as  Mrs.  Dodd's  eyes  sought  out  the  con 
tents  of  the  box,  "  when  next  you  write 
to  your  little  niece  Mary  Ann,  won't  you 
send  her  my  love?  I've  meant  to  write 
the  child  myself,  but,  to  tell  the  truth, 


The  Seeds  of  Time  109 

it   has    quite    slipped    my   mind.      How 
wrong  of  me — to  forget!" 

With  the  fringe  of  the  white  shawl 
dragging  behind  her,  Ophelia  ran  up  the 
gravel  path  to  the  door.  "  He  has  not 
forgotten,"  she  whispered,  ecstatically, 
to  the  cool  silence  of  the  house. 

"  May  I  share  your  pew  ?" 

The  frail,  black  -  shawled  woman, 
crouchingly  seated  by  the  pew  door, 
looked  up  with  wide,  expectant  eyes. 
In  the  aisle  stood  another  woman,  a 
stranger  in  the  church.  There  was  a 
distinction  in  the  simplicity  of  her 
bearing  that  would  have  startled  Miss 
Ophelia  into  tremulousness  were  it  not 
for  a  remembered  candor  in  the 
brown  eyes. 

"Why,  it's  little  Mary  Ann  Dodd !" 
said  she,  as  she  made  room  for  her  guest. 

"Do  you  know  it's  fifty  years  since 
I  sat  here?"  asked  Mary  Ann. 

Miss  Ophelia  smiled  with  drooped 
eyelids,  and  in  reply  handed  her  an 
opened  hymnal. 

After  the  service  the  two  women  walk 
ed  along  the  street  together.  At  the  Oak 
ley  gate  Mary  Ann  stooped  over.  Yes, 
the  ball  and  chain,  although  eaten  with 
rust,  were  still  there. 


no  Harper's  Novelettes 

"My  little  maid  goes  home  to  her 
parents  over  the  Sabbath,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  fumbling  in  the  depths  of  her 
black  silk  pocket.  She  drew  out  a  heavy, 
smooth  brass  key  that  reached  almost 
from  finger-tips  to  wrist. 

"You  live  alone?" 

"  Quite  alone." 

"That  key  looks  too  heavy  for  your 
hand.  It  reminds  me  in  some  way  of 
the  little  idol  that  you  brought  to  teach 
us  by.  I  connect  Jonah  and  Chinese 
idols  to  this  day." 

Miss  Ophelia  with  both  hands  was 
fitting  the  key  in  the  lock.  Mary  Ann 
turned  and  looked  about  her.  The  green 
blinds  had  faded  to  a  blue,  the  white 
walls  had  taken  on  a  granite  gray.  Miss 
Ophelia  lifted  her  face,  pearly  white 
within  the  black  bonnet  brim. 

"Won't  you  come  in?" 

"  I  remember  the  garden  so  well,"  Mary 
Ann  replied,  oppressed  by  that  locked 
silence.  "Let  us  stay  out  here  in  the 
sunshine.  The  L  stands  unchanged, 
although  the  Judge  died — is  it  thirty 
years  ago?" 

"  Thirty-seven.  Won't  you  rest  in  the 
parlor?" 

"  I  can  stay  only  a  minute,  thank  you. 
My  cousins,  the  Dodds,  are  expecting 


The  Seeds  of  Time  in 

me."  She  had  planned  to  devote  an  hour 
or  more  to  her  childhood's  admiration; 
but  had  not  Miss  Ophelia  already  ac 
counted  for  the  incidental  gap  of  fifty 
years?  And  to  disturb  by  idle  chatter 
the  stillness  that  had  descended  upon  the 
Oakley  place — a  stillness  apart  from  the 
Sunday  hush — seemed  desecration.  "  But 
I  want  to  show  you  these  photographs." 
She  unfolded  a  leather  case.  "I  carried 
it  to  church  in  order  that  I  might  bring 
it  here.  If  people  noticed  it,  I  hoped 
they  would  think  it  was  a  Bible.  My 
husband.  My  three  sons.  Two  are  dark 
like  me.  Only  one,  the  youngest,  is  fair 
like  his  father." 

"  The  sun  shines  across  the  pictures 
here.  Let  us  go  into  the  shade." 

They  crossed  the  garden  and  stood  in 
the  shadow  of  the  L. 

"  They  are  lovely  countenances,"  Miss 
Ophelia  said.  "  You  have  had  a  full  life, 
have  you  not,  my  dear  ?" 

Mary  Ann  smiled  down  upon  the  up 
turned  face.  "  Sometimes  I  think  it 
doesn't  matter  how  full  a  life  is,  so  long 
as  it  isn't  empty." 

For  an  instant  Miss   Ophelia's  lashes 
swept   her   cheeks   with   all   the   reticent 
coquetry  of  her  young  ladyhood.     "  Mine 
hasn't  been  empty,  only  very  quiet." 
8 


ii2  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  quietude  of  the  moment  was  suf 
ficient  acquiescence. 

"Wasn't  there  a  lily-of-the-valley  bed 
here?"  asked  Mary  Ann. 

"It  ran  out,"  Miss  Ophelia  answered; 
but  the  two  strayed  along  the  boundary 
shadow.  "  I  believe  the  plants  died  of  old 
age,  but  I  am  told  that  the  place  was  too 
damp  for  them."  The  white  brick  foun 
dation  was  spotted  with  olive  moss,  and 
the  garden-mould  seemed  to  be  creeping 
upward.  Only  a  few  pallid  leaves  re 
mained  in  the  oblong  bed. 

"  The  fragrance  of  the  soil  is  the  same," 
said  Mary  Ann.  "How  scents  call  up 
old  memories!  I  have  not  thought  of  it 
for  years,  but  now,  standing  here,  it 
comes  back  to  me — the  way  a  little  girl 
feels  toward  a  woman  who  fulfils  her 
vision  of  all  that  a  ( young  lady '  should 
be,  and  my  devotion  when  I  sent  you  that 
box  of  lilies-of-the-valley  the  first  spring 
after  I'd  visited  my  cousins  the  Dodds." 

"You — you  sent  me  the  lilies-of-the- 
valleyj" 

"Yes,  and  without  any  name.  I  was 
such  a  romantic  little  thing,  and  I  fairly 
worshipped  you.  Odd,  is  it  not,  the 
things  that  one  forgets,  and  the  things 
that  one  remembers,  after  fifty  years  ?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Miss  Ophelia,— " oh !" 


The  Seeds  of  Time  113 

Mary  Ann  bent  over  the  face  that  in 
the  shadow  seemed  to  reflect  the  tint  of 
the  house  wall.  Far  less  than  fifty  years 
had  sufficed  to  erase  the  childish  im 
pression  of  that  other  morning,  when 
her  Sunday-school  teacher  had  received 
a  kiss  as  thanks  for  a  flower.  But  with 
a  quavering  echo  of  her  laugh  Miss 
Ophelia  turned  her  face  away. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  not  on  the  lips." 


The  Feel  Doll 

BY   ANNIE   HAMILTON   DONNELL 

THE  minister  uttered  a  suppressed 
note  of  warning  as  solid  little  steps 
sounded  in  the  hall.  It  was  he  who 
threw  a  hasty  covering  over  the  doll. 
The  minister's  wife  sewed  on  undisturb 
edly.  She  did  worse  than  that. 

"Come  here,  Rhoda,"  she  called,  "and 
tell  me  which  you  like  better,  three  tucks 
or  five  in  this  petticoat?" 

"  Five," — promptly,  upon  inspection. 
Rhoda  pulled  away  the  concealing  cover 
and  regarded  the  stolid  doll  with  tilted 
head.  "  She's  'nough  like  my  Pharaoh's 
Daughter  to  be  a  blood-relation,"  she  re 
marked.  "  She's  got  the  Pharaoh  com 
plexion." 

"  Spoken  like  my  daughter !"  laughed 
the  minister.  "But  I  thought  new  dolls 
in  this  house  were  always  surprises.  And 
here's  Mrs.  Minister  making  doll  petti 
coats  out  in  the  open!" 

"This  is  Rebecca  Mary's — I'm  dress- 


The  Feel  Doll  115 

ing  a  3oll  for  Rebecca  Mary,  Robert. 
She's  eleven  years  old  and  never  had  a 
doll!  Rhoda's  ten  and  has  had —  How 
many  dolls  have  you  had,  Rhoda?" 

"Gracious!  Why,  Pharaoh's  Daugh 
ter  an'  Caiapha,  an'  Esther  the  Beau 
tiful  Queen,  an'  the  Children  of  Israel — 
five  o'  them, — an'  Mrs.  Job,  an' — " 

"  Never  mind  the  rest,  dear.  You  hear, 
Robert?  Do  you  think  Rhoda  would  be 
alive  now  if  she'd  never  had  a  doll?" 

The  minister  pondered  the  question. 
"  Maybe  not,  maybe  not,"  he  decided ; 
"but  possibly  the  dolls  would  have 
been." 

"Don't  make  me  smile,  Robert.  I'm 
trying  to  make  you  cry.  If  Rebecca  Mary 
were  sixty  instead  of  eleven  I  should 
dress  her  a  doll." 

"  Then  why  not  one  for  Miss  Olivia  ?" 

"  I  may  dress  her  one,"  undauntedly, 
"  if  I  find  out  she  never  had  one  in 
her  life." 

"  She  never  did."  The  minister's  voice 
was  positive.  "  And  for  that  reason,  dear, 
aren't  you  afraid  she  would  not  approve 
of  Rebecca  Mary's  having  one?  Isn't  it 
rather  a  delicate  mat — " 

"Don't,  Robert,  don't  discourage  me. 
It's  going  to  be  such  a  beautiful  doll! 
YOU  needn't  tell  me  that  poor  little 


u6  Harpers  Novelettes 

eleven-year-old  woman-child  won't  hold 
out  her  empty  arms  for  it.  Robert,  you're 
a  minister — would  it  he  wrong  to  give  it 
to  her  straight?" 

"Straight,  dear?" 

"  Yes ;  without  say-ing  anything  to  her 
aunt  Olivia.  Tell  me.  Rhoda's  gone. 
Say  it  as — as  liberally  as  you  can." 

The  minister  for  answer  swept  doll, 
petticoat,  and  minister's  wife  into  his 
arms,  and  kissed  them  all  impartially. 

"  Think  if  it  were  Khoda,"  she  pleaded.. 

"  And  you  were  <  Aunt  Olivia '  ?  You 
ask  me  to  think  such  hard  things,  dear! 
If  I  could  stop  being  a  minister  long 
enough — " 

"  Stop !"  she  laughed ;  but  she  knew  she 
meant  keep  on.  With  a  sigh  she  bur 
rowed  a  little  deeper  in  his  neck.  "  Then 
I'll  ask  Aunt  Olivia  first,"  she  said. 

She  went  back  to  her  tucking.  Only 
once  more  did  she  mention  Rebecca  Mary. 
The  once  was  after  she  had  come  down 
stairs  from  tucking  the  children  into  bed. 
She  stood  in  the  doorway  with  the  look 
in  her  face  that  mothers  have  after  do 
ing  things  like  that.  The  minister  loved 
that  look. 

"Robert,  nights  when  I  kiss  the  chil 
dren — you  knew  when  you  married  me 
that  I  was  foolish — I  kiss  little  lone  Re- 


The  Feel  Doll  117 

frecca  Mary  too.  I  began  the  day  Thomas 
Jefferson  died — I  went  to  the  Rebecca- 
Mary-est  window  and  threw  her  a  kiss. 
I  went  to-night.  Don't  say  a  word;  you 
knew  when  you  married  me." 

Aunt  Olivia  received  the  resplendent 
doll  in  silence.  Plummer  honesty  and 
Plummer  politeness  were  at  variance. 
Plummer  politeness  said :  "  Thank  her. 
For  goodness'  sake,  aren't  you  going  to 
thank  the  minister's  wife?"  But  Plum 
mer  honesty,  grim  and  yieldless,  said, 
"  You  can't  thank  her,  because  you're  not 
thankful."  So  Aunt  Olivia  sat  silent, 
with  her  resplendent  doll  across  her  kneos. 

"For  Rebecca  Mary,"  the  minister's 
wife  was  saying  in  rather  a  halting  way, 
"  I  dressed  it  for  her.  I  thought  perhaps 
she  never — " 

"  She  never,"  said  Aunt  Olivia,  briefly. 
Strange  that  at  that  particular  instant 
she  should  remember  a  trifling  incident 
in  the  child's  far-off  childhood.  The 
incident  had  to  do  with  a  little  whit© 
nightgown  rolled  tightly  and  pinned  to 
gether.  She  had  found  Rebecca  Mary 
cuddling  it  in  bed. 

"  It's  a  dollie.  Please  'sh,  Aunt  Olivia, 
or  you'll  wake  her  up!"  the  child  had 
whispered  in  an  agony.  "  Oh,  you're  not 
a-going  to  turn  her  back  to  a  nightgown  ? 


n8  Harper's  Novelettes 

Don't  unpin  her,  Aunt  Olivia — it  will 
kill  her !  I'll  name  her  after  you  if  you'll 
let  her  stay." 

"  Get  up  and  take  your  clothes  off." 
Strange  Aunt  Olivia  should  remember  at 
this  particular  instant;  should  remember, 
too,  that  the  pin  had  been  a  little  rusty 
and  came  out  hard.  Rebecca  Mary  had 
slid  out  of  bed  obediently,  but  there  had 
been  a  look  on  her  little  brown  face  as 
of  one  bereaved.  She  had  watched  the 
pin  come  out  and  the  nightgown  unroll, 
in  stricken  silence.  When  it  hung  re 
leased  and  limp  over  Aunt  Olivia's  arm 
she  had  given  one  little  cry: 

"She's  dead!" 

The  minister's  wife  was  talking  hur 
riedly.  Her  voice  seemed  a  good  way  off ; 
it  had  the  effect  of  coming  nearer  and 
growing  louder  as  Aunt  Olivia  stepped 
back  across  the  years. 

"  Of  course  you  are  to  do  as  you  think 
best  about  giving  it  to  her,"  the  minis 
ter's  wife  said,  unwillingly.  This  came 
of  being  a  minister's  wife !  "  But  I  think 
— I  have  always  thought — that  little  girls 
ought — I  mean  Rhoda  ought — to  have 
dolls  to  cuddle.  It  seems  part  of  their 
— her — inheritance."  This  was  hard 
work !  If  Miss  Olivia  would  not  sit  there 
looking  like  that — 


The  Feel  Doll  119 

"As  if  I'd  done  something  unkind!" 
thought  the  gentle  little  mother,  indig 
nantly.  She  got  up  presently  and  went 
away.  But  Aunt  Olivia,  with  the  doll 
hanging  unhealthily  over  her  arm,  fol 
lowed  her  to  the  door.  There  was  some 
thing  the  Plummer  honesty  insisted  upon 
Aunt  Olivia's  saying.  She  said  it  re 
luctantly  : 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I've 
never  believed  in  dolls.  I've  always 
thought  they  were  a  waste  of  time  and 
kept  children  from  learning  to  do  useful 
things.  I've  brought  Rebecca  Mary  up 
according  to  my  best  light." 

"  Worst  darkness !"  thought  the  min 
ister's  wife,  hotly. 

"  She's  never  had  a  doll.  I  never  had 
one.  I  got  along.  I  could  make  buttei' 
when  I  was  seven.  So  perhaps  you'd  bet 
ter  take  the  doll—" 

"  No,  no !  Please  keep  it,  Miss  Olivia, 
and  if  you  should  ever  change  your  mind 
— I  mean  perhaps  some  time —  Good-by. 
It's  a  beautiful  day,  isn't  it?" 

Aunt  Olivia  took  it  up  into  the  guest- 
chamber  and  laid  it  in  an  empty  bureau 
drawer.  She  closed  the  drawer  hastily. 
She  did  not  feel  as  duty-proof  as  she 
had  once  felt,  before  things  had  happened 
— softening  things  that  had  pulled  at 


i2o  Harper's  Novelettes 

her  heart-strings  and  weakened  her.  The 
quilt  on  the  guest-chamber  bed  was  one 
of  the  things;  she  would  not  look  at  it 
now.  And  the  sheets  under  the  quilt, — 
and  the  grave  of  Thomas  Jefferson  that 
she  could  see  from  the  guest  -  chamber 
window.  Aunt  Olivia  was  terribly  beset 
with  the  temptation  to  take  the  doll  out 
to  Rebecca  Mary  in  the  garden. 

"  Are  you  going  to  do  it  ?"  demanded 
Duty,  confronting  her.  "Are  you  going 
to  give  up  all  your  convictions  now? 
Rebecca  Mary's  in  her  twelfth  year — 
pretty  late  to  begin  to  humor  her.  I 
thought  you  didn't  believe  in  humoring." 

"I  unpinned  the  nightgown.  I  never 
let  her  make  another  one." 

"  But  you're  weakening  now.  You  want 
to  let  her  have  this  doll." 

"It  seems  like  part  of — of  her  in 
heritance." 

"Lock  that  drawer!" 

Aunt  Olivia  turned  the  key  unhappily. 
It  was  not  that  her  "convictions"  had 
changed — it  was  her  heart. 

She  went  up  at  odd  times  and  looked 
at  the  doll  the  minister's  wife  had  dressed. 
She  had  an  unaccountable,  uncomfortable 
feeling  that  it  was  lying  there  in  its 
coffin  —  that  Rebecca  Mary  would  have 
said,  "  She's  dead," 


The  Feel  Doll  121 

It  was  a  handsome  doll.  Aunt  Olivia 
was  not  acquainted  with  dolls,  but  she 
acknowledged  that.  She  admired  it  un 
willingly.  She  liked  its  clothes — the  min 
ister's  wife  had  not  spared  any  pains. 

Once  Aunt  Olivia  took  it  out  and 
turned  it  over  in  her  hands  with  critical 
intent,  but  there  was  nothing  to  criticise. 
It  was  a  beautiful  doll.  She  held  it  with 
a  curious,  shy  tenderness.  But  that  time 
she  did  not  sit  down  with  it.  It  was  the 
next  time. 

The  rocker  was  so  near  the  bureau, 
and  Aunt  Olivia  was  tired — and  the  doll 
was  already  in  her  arms.  She  only  sat 
down.  For  a  minute  she  sat  quite  straight 
and  unrelaxed,  then  she  settled  back  a 
little  — a  little  more.  The  doll  lay 
heavily  against  her,  its  flaxen  head  touch 
ing  her  breast.  After  the  manner  of 
high-bred  dolls  its  eyes  drooped  sleepily. 

Aunt  Olivia  began  to  rock — a  gentle 
sway  back  and  forth.  She  was  sixty,  but 
this  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  rocked 
a  chi — a  doll.  So  she  rocked  for  a  little, 
scarcely  knowing  it.  When  she  found 
out,  a  wave  of  soft  pink  dyed  her  face 
and  flowed  upward  redly  to  her  hair. 

"  Well !"  Duty  jibed,  mocking  her. 

"Don't  say  a  word!"  cried  poor  Aunt 
Olivia.  « I'll  put  her  right  back." 


122  Harper's  Novelettes 

"What  good  will  that  do?" 

"I'll  lock  her  in." 

"  You've  locked  her  in  before." 

"I'll— I'll  hide  the  key." 

"  Where  you  can  find  it!  Think  again." 

Aunt  Olivia  thrust  the  doll  back  into 
its  coffin  with  unsteady  hands.  The  red 
in  her  face  had  faded  to  a  faint  abiding 
pink.  She  locked  the  drawer  and  drew 
out  the  key.  She  strode  to  the  window 
and  flung  it  out  with  a  wide  sweep  of 
her  arm. 

The  minister's  wife,  ignorant  of  the  re 
sult  of  her  kind  little  experiment,  resolved 
to  question  Rebecca  Mary  the  next  time 
she  came  on  an  errand.  She  would  do  it 
with  extreme  caution. 

"I'll  just  feel  round,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  know  if  her  aunt's  given  it  to 
her.  You  think  she  must  have,  don't  you, 
Robert?  By  this  time —  Why,  it  was  six 
weeks  ago  I  carried  it  over!  It  was  such 
a  nice,  friendly  little  doll !  By  this  time 
they  would  be  such  friends — if  her  aunt 
gave  it  to  her.  Robert,  you  think — " 

"I  think  it's  going  to  rain,"  the  min 
ister  said.  But  he  kissed  her  to  make 
it  easier. 

Rebecca  Mary  came  over  to  bring  Aunt 
Olivia's  rule  for  parson  -  cake  that  the 
minister's  wife  had  asked  for. 


The  Feel  Doll  123 

"Come  in,  Rebecca  Mary,"  the  minis 
ter's  wife  said,  cordially.  "Don't  you 
want  to  see  the  new  dress  Rhoda's  doll  is 
going  to  have?  I  suppose  you  could  make 
your  doll's  dress  yourself?"  It  seemed  a 
hard  thing  to  say.  Feeling  round  was 
not  pleasant. 

"P'haps  I  could,  but  she  doesn't  wear 
dresses,"  Rebecca  Mary  answered,  gravely. 

"No?"  This  was  puzzling.  "Her 
clothes  don't  come  off,  I  suppose?"  Then 
it  could  not  be  the  nice,  friendly  doll. 

"  No'm.  Nor  they  don't  go  on,  either. 
She  isn't  a  feel  doll." 

"A — what  kind  did  you  say,  dear?" 
The  minister's  wife  paused  in  her  work 
interestedly.  Distinctly,  Miss  Olivia  had 
not  given  her  the  doll;  but  this  doll — 
"I  don't  think  I  quite  understood,  Re 
becca  Mary." 

"  No'm ;  it's  a  little  hard.  She  isn't  a 
feel  doll,  I  said.  I  never  had  a  feel  one. 
Mine  hasn't  any  body,  just  a  soul.  But 
she's  a  great  comfort." 

"  Robert,"  appealed  the  minister's  wife, 
helplessly.  This  was  a  case  for  the  min 
ister — a  case  of  souls. 

"  Tell  us  some  more  about  her,  Rebecca 
Mary,"  the  minister  urged,  gently.  But 
there  was  helplessness,  too,  in  his  eyes. 

"Why,  that's   all!"  returned  Rebecca 


124  Harper's  Novelettes 

Mary,  in  surprise.  "  Of  course  I  can't 
dress  her  and  undress  her  or  take  her  out 
calling.  But  it's  a  great  comfort  to  rock 
her  soul  to  sleep." 

"  Call  Rhoda,"  murmured  the  minis 
ter's  wife  to  the  minister ;  but  Rhoda  was 
already  there.  She  volunteered  prompt 
explanation.  There  was  no  hesitation  in 
Rhoda's  face. 

"  She  means  a  make-believe  doll.  Don't 
you,  Rebecca  Mary?" 

"  Yes,"  Rebecca  Mary  assented ;  "  that's 
her  other  name,  I  suppose,  but  I  never 
called  her  by  it." 

"What  did  you  call  her?"  demanded 
practical  Rhoda.  "What's  her  name, 
I  mean?" 

"Rhoda!" — hastily,  from  the  minister's 
wife.  This  seemed  like  sacrilege.  But 
Rhoda's  clear  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Rebecca  Mary;  she  had  not  heard  her 
mother's  warning  little  word. 

A  shy  color  spread  thinly  over  the  lean 
little  face  of  Rebecca  Mary.  For  the 
space  of  a  breath  or  two  she  hesitated. 

"  Her  name's — Felicia,"  then,  softly. 

"  Robert  " — the  children  had  gone  out 
together;  the  minister's  wife's  eyes  were 
unashamedly  wet — "  Robert,  I  wish  you 
wore  a — a  sheriff  instead  of  a  minister. 
Because  I  think  I  would  make  a  better 


The  Feel  Doll  125 

sheriff's  wife.  Do  you  know  what  I 
would  make  you  do  ?" 

The  minister  could  guess. 

"I'd  make  you  arrest  that  woman, 
Kobert!" 

"Felicia!"  but  she  saw  willingness  for 
her  to  be  a  sheriff's  wife  come  into  his 
own  eyes  and  stop  there  briefly. 

"Don't  call  me  'Felicia'  while  I  feel 
as  wicked  as  this!  Oh,  Robert,  to  think 
she  named  her  little  soul-doll  after  me !" 

"  It's  a  beautiful  name." 

Suddenly  the  wickedness  was  over. 
She  laughed  unsteadily. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  good  name  for  a 
sheriff's  wife,  would  it?"  she  said.  "So 
I'll  stay  by  my  own  minister." 

One  day  close  upon  this  time  Aunt 
Olivia  came  abruptly  upon  Rebecca  Mary 
in  the  grape-arbor.  She  was  sitting  in 
her  little  rocking-chair,  swaying  back  and 
forth  slowly.  She  did  not  see  Aunt 
Olivia.  What  was  this  she  was  crooning 
half  under  her  breath? 

"  Oh,   hush,   oh,   hush,   my   dollie; 

Don't  worry  any  more, 
For  Rebecca  Mary  'n'  the  angels 
Are  watching  o'er, 
— O'er   'n'   o'er   'n'   o'er." 

The  same  words  over  and  over — grow- 


126  Harper's  Novelettes 

ing  perKaps  a  little  softer  and  tenderer. 
Rebecca  Mary's  arm  was  crooked  as 
though  a  little  flaxen  head  lay  in  the 
bend  of  it.  Rebecca  Mary's  brooding  lit 
tle  face  was  gazing  downward  intently  at 
her  empty  arm.  Quite  suddenly  it  came 
upon  Aunt  Olivia  that  she  had  seen  the 
child  rocking  like  this  before — that  she 
must  have  seen  her  often. 

"Rebecca  Mary  V  the  angels 
Are  watching  o'er," 

sang  on  the  crooning  little  voice  in  Aunt 
Olivia's  ears. 

The  doll  in  its  coffin  up-stairs;  down 
here  Rebecca  Mary  rocking  her  empty 
arms.  The  two  thoughts  flashed  into 
Aunt  Olivia's  mind  and  welded  into  one. 
All  her  vacillations  and  Duty's  sharp 
reminders  occurred  to  her  clearly.  She 
had  thought  that  at  last  she  was  proof 
against  temptation,  but  she  had  not 
thought  of  this.  She  was  not  prepared 
for  Rebecca  Mary,  here  in  her  rocking- 
chair,  rocking  her  little  soul-doll  to  sleep. 

The  angels  were  used  to  watching  o'er, 
but  Aunt  Olivia  could  not  bear  it.  She 
turned  away  with  a  strange,  unaccus 
tomed  ache  in  her  throat.  The  minis 
ter's  wife  would  not  have  wanted  her  ar 
rested  then. 


The  Feel  Doll  127 

I 

Aunt  Olivia  tiptoed  away  as  though 
Rebecca  Mary  had  said,  "'Sh!"  She 
was  remembering,  as  she  went,  the 
brief,  sweet  moment  when  she  had  sat 
like  that  and  rocked,  with  the  doll 
the  minister's  wife  had  dressed  in  her 
arms.  It  seemed  to  establish  a  new 
link  of  kinship  between  her  and  Re 
becca  Mary. 

She  ran  plump  into  Duty. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped.  She  was  a  little 
stunned.  Aunt  Olivia's  Duty  was  robust 
and  solid. 

"I  know  where  you've  been.  I  tried 
to  get  there  in  time." 

"You're  too  late,"  Aunt  Olivia  said, 
firmly.  "Don't  stop  me;  there's  some 
thing  I  must  do  before  it  gets  too  dark. 
It's  six  o'clock  now." 

"  Wait !"  commanded  Duty.  "  Are  you 
crazy?  You  don't  mean — 

"  Go  back  there  and  look  at  that 
child  —  and  hear  what  she's  singing ! 
Stay  long  enough  to  take  it  all  in — 
don't  hurry." 

But  Duty  barred  her  way,  grim  and 
stern.  Palely  she  put  up  both  her  hands 
and  thrust  it  aside.  She  did  not  once 
look  back  at  it. 

Already  it  was  dusky  under  the  guest- 
chamber  window.  She  had  to  stoop  and 


128  Harpers  Novelettes 

peer  and  feel  in  the  long  tangle  of 
grass.  She  kept  on  patiently  with  the 
Plummer  kind  of  patience  that  never 
gave  up.  She  was  eager  and  smiling, 
as  though  something  pleasant  were  at 
the  end  of  the  peering  and  stooping 
and  feeling. 

Aunt  Olivia  was  hunting  for  a  key. 


The  Wind  of  Dreams 

BY   EOT   ROLFE   GILSON 


to  the  library  window  you 
held  your  book,  that  its  last  en- 
chanted  pages  might  catch  the 
twilight.  The  print  was  fine.  The 
words  you  could  just  descry  as  they  flow 
ed  sweetly  with  a  sound  as  of  plashing 
burns,  and  Highland  winds,  and  a  scent 
as  of  purple  heather.  As  the  light  of  day 
waned  dimmer,  the  flame  of  romance 
flared  higher  in  those  Scottish  pages,  so 
that  you  held  them  nearer  to  your  strain 
ing  eyes.  "  The  End,"  you  read,  and 
closed  them  with  a  sigh. 

In  a  strange  unrest  you  rose  from  the 
window-seat.  Upon  it  you  left  the  book 
—  husk  of  the  idyl  you  bore  away.  The 
house  was  stifling.  You  seized  your  cap 
and  strode  out  into  the  chill  Novem 
ber  air. 

The  wind  was  blowing.  The  sun  was 
setting  in  a  wild  glory.  Between  the 
swart  earth  and  the  rain-clouds  hanging 
in  the  western  sky  was  a  strip  as  of  gold- 


130  Harper's  Novelettes 

en  sea.  On  its  molten  bosom  black  cloud- 
islands  drifted  in  the  rising  gale.  Its 
farther  shore,  jagged  and  mountainous, 
crowned  the  saffron  with  a  crimson  glow. 
Suddenly,  beyond,  through  parting 
clouds,  appeared  a  greater  sea,  growing 
with  the  wind — a  sea  of  palest  green, 
luminous,  silvery  as  though  in  moon 
shine.  Over  this  arras  of  departing  day 
the  orchards  hung  a  lace  of  gaunt,  black 
boughs,  trembling  with  every  moaning 
gust.  You  shivered  deliciously.  It  was 
like  a  sunset  in  that  Scottish  love-story. 

You  buttoned  your  coat  more  tightly 
about  your  throat,  sighed,  strode  away 
in  an  ecstasy  of  youth,  your  steps  in 
time  to  the  rhythm  of  your  fancies. 
Against  the  bleak  November  sky  a 
distant  mill  took  on  the  shape  of  a 
battlemented  tower.  Lights  twinkled 
below  the  hill  —  twinkled  as  bright 
ly  in  the  deepening  night  as  though 
they  were  not  in  Ourtown,  but  in  some 
village  of  stone  and  ivy  and  romance, 
where  still  were  shepherds  and  milk 
maids,  legends  and  fairy-tales.  If  it 
were  only  true!  The  flocks  now  would 
be  safely  folded.  The  shepherds  would 
be  burring  over  their  steaming  porridges 

"  A  wild  nicht  in  the  glen,  Tammas." 

«  Ou,  aye." 


The  Wind  of  Dreams         131 

And  Ourtown  looked  Scottish  and 
beautiful  in  the  dark  o'  night,  when  you 
could  see  naught  of  it  but  its  lights  and 
shadows,  and  hear  naught  of  it  but  the 
wind  singing  in  the  maples  as  though  it 
were  singing  in  a  glen. 

A  land  of  winds  and  water  was  that 
bonny  Scotland.  Aye,  the  books  had 
told  you  —  those  Scottish  romances  de 
voured  in  the  window-seat.  The  winds 
swept  swirling  clouds  about  the  crags, 
spread  purple  mists  across  the  lochs  and 
moors  and  heather,  and  sighed  and  sang 
in  the  glens.  The  sea  foamed  wildly  or, 
the  rocks  and  the  yellow  sands.  A  bonny 
land  to  write  about;  small  wonder,  then., 
that  its  sons  wrote  lovingly.  Where  was 
such  witchery  in  Ourtown,  painted  and 
wooden,  and  its  mild  countryside  with 
its  sand  and  its  sluggish  streams?  At 
the  thought  you  strode  bitterly  through 
the  wind  and  night.  No,  not  a  single 
crag  overtopped  Ourtown.  Not  a  single 
torrent  raced,  gurgling  and  splashing, 
over  rocks  and  shallows  like  those  Scot 
tish  burns.  The  Ourtown  brooks  flowed 
listlessly  without  a  stone  to  sing  upon. 
There  were  no  sheep-bells  tinkling  among 
the  hills. 

Poor,  poor  young  bard !  Oh  yes,  there 
was  a  poet  in  you  —  the  books  had 


132  Harper's  Novelettes 

told  you  more  than  they  bargained  for 
— a  poet  born  out  of  place  and  time! 
You  felt  the  gnawing  at  your  vitals.  You 
felt  the  flame  in  your  heart.  Poetic  fire 
might  burn  on  hearthstone  side  by  side 
with  a  blazing  log  or  peat,  you  told  your 
self,  but,  oh,  thou  modern  Ourtown!  how 
should  it  blaze  in  thy  black  gas-ranges 
and  thy  patent  furnace-pipes  —  in  thy 
heat  without  glowing,  thy  comfort  with 
out  beauty,  thy  modern  thoughts  without 
dreaming,  thy  modern  words  without 
legend,  without  song  ? 

Alone  you  stood  in  the  darkness,  scowl 
ing  at  Ourtown's  electric  lights.  You 
shook  your  fist  at  them.  You  ground 
your  teeth. 

"Plate-glass  windows!"  you  splutter 
ed,  smashing  them  gleefully  in  your 
mind  and  thinking  of  Abbey  drawings, 
of  fair  little  villages  with  diamond  panes. 

"  Shingles  and  tin !"  —  thinking  of 
thatched  roofs,  golden  with  newness  or 
gray  with  age  in  the  straggling  byways 
of  some  ancient  town. 

"  And  not  a  single  inn !"  you  groaned, 
thinking  of  good  old  stage-coach  days, 
with  the  fire  roaring  up  the  broad  chim 
ney  on  a  winter's  night,  and  the  high 
oak  settles  creaking  under  rotund  figures 
puffing  church-wardens  and  sipping  good 


The  Wind  of  Dreams         133 

mulled  ale,  and  smiling  and  chuckling 
in  the  glow.  You  saw  brass  kettles  shi 
ning  on  the  walls,  and  the  pewter  tank 
ards,  and  on  the  polished  sideboard  roast 
of  beef,  saddle  of  mutton,  and  haunch 
of  the  wild  red  deer.  .  .  . 

"  Bah !"  you  shouted  at  Ourtown,  and 
"  Bah  1"  again  at  its  Palace  Hotel  and 
its  lunch-counters — oh,  ye  gods  of  po 
etry  !  —  its  meagre  lunch-counters  with 
their  high  stools  and  their  rows  of  sod 
den  pies,  and  their  crullers  in  pyramids 
under  glass,  like  the  wax  flowers  of  our 
grandmothers'  1 

Romance  in  Ourtown? 

Poetry  in  Ourtown  ? 

Bah! 

You  turned  away.  The  wind  had 
risen,  cooling  your  scowling  brow  .  .  u 
moaning  in  the  fir-trees  of  your  High 
land  glen.  It  clapped  you  smartly  on  the 
cheek.  You  turned  the  other.  You 
drew  the  plaid  more  closely  about  your 
mind  as  it  trod  the  heather.  A  splash 
of  rain  blinded  your  eyes.  You  dashed 
it  away  and  smiled  to  yourself  in  the 
gloaming.  Ah,  how  the  salt  spray  tingled ! 
How  the  waves  hissed  and  thundered  in 
the  mists  o'  Skye!  .  .  . 

So  when  the  wind  blew  brawly  it  was 


134  Harper's  Novelettes 

Scottish  weather.  The  autumn  became 
the  Scottish  season  of  the  year.  The 
harder  the  wind  blew,  the  louder  its  song 
in  the  tree-tops,  the  faster  the  gray 
clouds  scurried  across  the  sky,  the  harder 
you  tramped  the  countryside,  the  more 
Scottish  were  your  dreams.  Your  Scot 
tish  shoulders  were  broad  and  thick,  you 
carried  your  Scottish  chin  jauntily,  and 
the  muscles  of  your  Scottish  legs — aye, 
mon,  but  they  were  bonny! 

Ending  a  tramp,  perhaps,  you  lagged, 
listless,  when  suddenly  a  wind  sprang 
up,  and,  nodding  in  its  breath,  a  purple 
thistle  hung  aboon  your  path!  It  was 
a  sign  to  you.  Your  Scottish  eyes  bright 
ened.  Your  Scottish  nostrils  trembled  as 
at  a  sniff  of  heather  in  a  Highland  breeze. 
And  then — ah,  masterful  Scottish  legs  of 
yours!  —  how  they  bristled  with  might 
again,  how  you  marched  proudly  with 
swinging  strides  and  the  colors  flying 
in  your  cheeks.  .  .  .  You  had  seen  the 
watch-fires  flaming  on  the  hills.  You 
had  heard  the  war -pipes  skirling  in 
the  glen.  .  .  . 

The  wind  grew  wilder.  It  flung  the 
Scottish  clouds  athwart  the  sky.  It  sent 
the  white  dust  whirling.  You  shouted 
for  very  glee  of  its  Scottish  bluster;  you 
sang  for  very  joy  of  its  Scottish  dream — 


The  Wind  of  Dreams          135 

"March!     March!     Tweeddale  and  Teriot- 
dale," 

— and  so  the  bluebonnets  got  over  the 
Border,  a  flurry  of  plaids  in  a  Scottish 
gale. 

Aye,  you  wore  a  tam-o'-shanter  now, 
braving  the  vulgar  little  Ourtown  boys 
who  jeered  at  it,  pointing  it  out  to  you 
with  dirty  fingers  as  though  you  did  not 
know  full  well  that  it  was  there.  You 
wore  a  plaid  cravat.  On  the  edge  of  your 
Virgil  you  drew  claymores  and  thistles 
and  lions  rampant  on  little  shields. 

Out  of  the  schoolroom  window  your 
eyes  wandered  from  your  Latin.  Darkly 
they  rested  on  Ourtown,  painted  and 
wooden  and  glaring  in  the  sun.  The 
smoke  of  its  factory  chimneys  rose 
busily  into  the  autumn  air.  The  din  of 
its  sawmills  came  wailing  up  to  you, 
and  you  frowned  at  the  sound.  It  was 
not  logs  they  were  cutting  there.  It  was 
green  trees  and  cool  shadows  and  the 
songs  of  birds  and  wind  in  branches. 
Romance  they  were  cutting  there — you 
could  hear  it  moaning  in  the  saw's  cruel 
teeth.  Romance  and  poetry  they  were 
slicing  into  yellow  strips  to  be  piled  and 
measured  and  sold  for  gold ! 

A  Highland  breeze  stole  freshly  through 
the  schoolroom  window.  It  sang  of  oth- 


136  Harper's  Novelettes 

QT  days  when  the  red  deer  and  the  mailed 
knight  and  the  cowled  friar  drank  from 
the  same  cool  woodland  spring.  Had 
romance  fled  with  those  good  old  times, 
you  wondered?  Your  Highland  breeze 
murmured  a  half -dissent.  "  Not  quite," 
it  told  you.  "You  may  still  rove  where 
the  red  deer  ran;  you  may  still  drink 
where  the  knights  and  friars  quenched 
their  thirst  in  the  greenwood  shade. 
Romance  lingers  in  castle  towers  and 
ivied  walls.  .  .  ." 

Then  why  not  go  there  ? 

Yes,  you  would  go  to  Scotland.  .  .  . 
(It  looked  cold  there  on  the  map.)  Well 
• — at  the  first  warm  tavern  you  would  stop. 
You  would  barely  notice  the  black-eyed 
one  drawing  the  ale,  lest  she  should  know 
herself  for  the  first  barmaid  you  had 
ever  seen.  Oh,  you  would  be  canny  that 
day.  You  would  lean  idly  against  the 
bar,  giving  the  smoke-stained  room  a 
careless  glance  or  so.  You  would  yawn 
dreamily,  and  yawn  again,  lost,  no  doubt, 
in  your  own  thoughts,  while  the  bar 
maid  served  you.  You  would  not  chuck 
her  under  the  chin.  Oh  no — you  had 
read  too  far  for  that.  Only  a  lord  may 
have  such  freedom — a  young  scamp  of  a 
lord  in  riding-breeches,  while  the  grin 
ning  hostler  holds  his  horse  before  the 


The  Wind  of  Dreams          137 

door.  No,  you  would  be  very  gentle 
manly  to  the  black-eyed  one.  "Thank 
you,"  you  would  say,  and  "Good-morn 
ing,"  and  go  your  way.  .  .  .  But  if  she 
were  pretty!  .  .  .  Well,  then,  at  the  top 
of  the  street  you  would  have  a  glance 
back  again. 

"Ah,  the  Brown  Bull,"  you  would 
murmur,  noting  the  tavern  sign.  You 
would  take  a  pencil  and  note-book  from 
the  pocket  of  your — tweeds. 

"  Thrumtochty,"  you  would  write. 
"  Very  good  ale  at  the  Brown  Bull. 
P.  B.  M." 

Initials  would  be  safe.  If  a  man 
should  see  them,  "  Pretty  barmaid,"  you 
would  say,  frankly;  if  a  woman,  why— 
"  Pretty  bad  morning." 

That  night  you  hurried  home  from 
school.  You  flung  your  tam-o'-shanter 
on  its  peg  and  sought  the  kitchen. 

"  Mother,  I've  made  up  my  mind." 

"Again?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  Harvard." 

"Not  going  to  Harvard?" 

**No;  I'm  going  to  Edinburgh." 

"But,  my  son — " 

"  I  know,  mother.  I  know  it's  a  long 
way  off,  and  expensive,  but  I  can  manage 
it,  I  must.  I  shall  never  be  happy  till 
I  do.  I'll  write  to  Edinburgh  to-night. 


138  Harper's  Novelettes 

Only  think,  mother,  of  being  in  Scot 
land;  of  Melrose  Abbey  by  moonlight, 
and  Abbotsford,  and  all  the  castles  and 
things!  And  the  Highlands,  mother! 
Oh,  I  hate  Ourtown  1" 

"Hate  Ourtown?" 

"  Yes — it's  so  ugly  and  so  new." 

Weel— 

You  did  not  go  to  Edinburgh,  or  Mel- 
rose  and  its  moonlight,  or  Abbotsford 
and  its  shrine.  You  stayed  in  Ourtown, 
painted  and  wooden  though  it  was — 
and  beautiful.  You  found  your  romance 
in  your  Scottish  winds  blowing  across 
the  Ourtown  marshes  and  stealing  around 
the  placid  little  cragless  hills.  Eagerly 
you  bent  your  ear  to  them.  You  heard 
pibrochs  in  their  skirling,  boat-songs  in 
their  swaying, — love-songs  even  in  their 
softer  strains. 

Do  you  mind  that  Scottish  day  in  In 
dian  summer  when  you  lingered  in  the 
woods?  The  mellow  sunshine  mingling 
with  the  leaves  gave  gold  for  gold  and 
fell  about  you  and  beyond,  a  magic  mist 
among  the  gray  and  purple  of  the  half- 
clad  boughs.  With  every  shift  of  wind 
swept  rack  in  the  blue  sky  the  yellow 
flood  ebbed  and  flowed;  left  you  chilled 
with  gray  cloud  shadows  and  western 


The  Wind  of  Dreams         139 

breeze  —  keen  premonitions  of  winter 
gales  to  come;  crept  back  to  you  with 
the  emerging  sun  to  warm  and  cheer  you 
with  a  glow  as  of  the  summer  that  was 
gone.  Leaves  still  fettered  by  aspen  twig 
and  stem  danced  in  the  wind  awhile,  as 
in  the  sap  and  green  of  their  lost  spring, 
but  every  gust  was  an  autumn  swan-song, 
and  they  fluttered  down  to  meet  their 
shadows  on  the  strewn  earth.  In  the 
brown  bush,  piping  of  startled  birds;  in 
the  air  the  autumn  fragrance;  in  your 
soul  an  autumn  dream. 

You  hummed  a  song  —  of  a  High 
land  maid,  some  blue  -  eyed  Jessie, 
It's  a  pretty  name  —  Jessie  —  you  told 
yourself.  .  .  .  "It's  a  pretty  name,  Jes 
sie,"  you  would  be  telling  her,  minding 
her  blue  eyes  better  than  the  helm.  "  See 
the  herring-boats,"  she  would  be  answer 
ing,  through  the  salt  spray;  ...  or  you 
would  be  salmon-fishing  ...  or  at  the 
top  of  the  brae  in  the  heather,  little 
tendrils  of  her  hair  straying  into  her 
blue  eyes  and  across  the  rose  glow  of 
her  cheeks.  .  .  The  waves  would  be  lap 
ping  the  yellow  shore.  The  sun  would  be 
sinking  slowly  into  the  flaming  sea.  .  .  . 
"  You  never  dreamed  of  loving  a  Scottish 
lassie,"  she  would  be  saying.  .  .  .  "Ah, 
but  I  did,  Jessie,"  you  would  be  an- 


140  Harper's  Novelettes 

ewering  her.  "I  was  only  a  school 
boy  in  Ourtown  when  I  first  loved  you, 
long  ago.  .  .  ." 

Foolish,  meddlesome  Scottish  wind! 
Did  the  Ourtown  maidens  lack  in  loveli 
ness?  Julia,  for  instance,  was  fair  and 
pink  enough  as  you  walked  from  school 
with  her.  No,  it  was  not  their  faces — 
but  they  had  no  Burns,  no  Black  or 
Jamie  B.  to  plead  for  them.  You  could 
never  find  one  of  them  dancing  in  moon 
light  in  a  wood,  or  singing  in  a  gloaming 
or  a  dairy.  There  were  moonshine  in 
Ourtown,  and  romantic  gloamings,  but 
no  dairies  for  girls  to  sing  in.  There 
was  a  meadow  or  two  where  bells  tinkled, 
but  never  a  milkmaid  to  call  the  kine. 

Yet  even  an  Ourtown  lass,  at  a  pinch 
of  course,  was  not  displeasing.  Julia, 
for  example;  even  Julia,  considered  Scot- 
tishly — taken,  ye  ken,  in  a  r-r-right  br-r- 
raw  Highland  gale — eh?  Man,  man,  but 
she  was  sonsie!  How  she  clung  to  your 
strong  young  Gaelic  arm  that  morn — that 
autumn,  Caledonian  morning  of  your 
youth — how  she  hung  there  laughingly, 
gasping  for  breath ! 

"My,  but  it  is  blowy!  Have  you 
read  .  .  ." 

"What's  that?"  you  cried,  turning 
your  ear  from  the  deafening  blast. 


The  Wind  of  Dreams          141 

" Barrie's — new  story" 

"Yes." 

"I  read  the  last  of  it,"  she  said,  in  a 
lull  of  the  wind,  "only  this  morning. 
Oh,  T  think  Scotland  must  be  beautiful 
—so  wild,  so — " 

"  Yes,"  you  shouted.  She  nodded  and 
went  on : 

*'  I've  always  .  ,  ,w 

"Always  what?"  you  cried.  "I  can't 
hear  you." 

" I  say  I've  always  wanted  to  go  there" 

"  Oh !"  you  said.    "  So  have  I." 

She  looked  up  questioningly. 

"So  have  I"  you  bellowed  again, 
Then  you  both  laughed,  swallowing 
mouthfuls  of  the  gale. 

"  My  great-great-grandfather,"  she  con 
fided,  in  its  next  interval,  "  was  a  Scotch 
man." 

You  pricked  up  your  ears  at  that. 

"A  Scotchman?" 

"  Yes— that  is,  half  of  him  was." 

"And  the  other  half?" 

"  Why,  that  was  .  .  ." 

"What?"  you  roared.  "I  didn't 
catch  it." 

"  I  say  the  other  half  was  .  .  ." 

"Dutch,  did  you  say?" 

"Irish!" 

"  Oh— h,"  you  said. 


142  Harper's  Novelettes 

She  turned  her  back  upon  the  hurri 
cane  to  catch  her  breath  and  arrange  her 
flying  hair.  "  Oh  dear — this  wind !"  she 
panted.  "I  like  it,  though.  It's  so 
Scotch,  isn't  it?" 

You  nodded,  wondering.  Now  here 
was  a  girl  who — 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "that's  why  I 
like  it.  My  great-great — "  She  broke 
off  laughingly.  "  Tt  stirs  me  .  «  ." 

"What?"  you  shouted,  for  the  wind 
had  changed  again. 

"  I  say,  it  stirs  me  all  .  .  ." 

"All  what?" 

"All  up." 

"  Oh  yes,"  you  answered.  "  It's  a 
b-bully  wind." 

It  was.  At  her  gate  she  paused  to 
say  good-by  to  you,  little  tendrils  of  her 
hair  straying  into  her  blue  eyes  and 
across  the  rose  glow  of  her  cheeks.  It's 
a  pretty  name — Julia,  you  told  yourself 
as  you  breasted  the  gale  again.  "It's  a 
pretty  name,  Julia,"  you  might  be  telling 
her  if  you  would,  minding  her  blue  eyes 
better  than  .  .  . 

Alas!  the  weather  is  not  what  it 
used  to  be. 


The  Amigo 

BY    WILLIAM    DEAN    HOWELLS 

HIS  name  was  really  Perez  Armando 
Aldeano,  but  in  the  end  every 
body  called  him  the  amigo,  be 
cause  that  was  the  endearing  term  by 
which  he  saluted  all  the  world.  There 
was  a  time  when  the  children  called  him 
"  Span-yard,"  in  their  games,  for  he 
spoke  no  tongue  but  Spanish,  and  though 
he  came  from  Ecuador,  and  was  no  more 
a  Spaniard  than  they  were  English,  he 
answered  to  the  call  of  "  Span-yard !" 
whenever  he  heard  it.  He  came  eagerly 
in  the  hope  of  fun,  and  all  the  more 
eagerly  if  there  was  a  hope  of  mischief 
in  the  fun.  Still,  to  discerning  spirits, 
he  was  always  the  amigo,  for  when  he 
hailed  you  so,  you  could  not  help  hailing 
him  so  again,  and  whatever  mock  he  put 
upon  you  afterwards,  you  were  his  secret 
and  inalienable  friend. 

The  moment  of  my  own  acceptance  in 
this  quality  came  in  the  first  hours  of  ex- 


144  Harper's  Novelettes 

pansion  following  our  getting  to  sea 
after  long  detention  in  the  dock  by  fog. 
A  small  figure  came  flying  down  the 
deck  with  outspread  arms,  and  a  joyful 
cry  of  "  Ah,  amigo  /"  as  if  we  were  now 
meeting  unexpectedly  after  a  former 
intimacy  in  Bogota;  and  the  amigo 
clasped  me  round  the  middle  to  his 
bosom,  or  more  strictly  speaking,  his 
brow,  which  he  plunged  into  my  waist 
coat.  He  was  clad  in  a  long  black  over 
coat,  and  a  boy's  knee-pants,  and  under 
the  peak  of  his  cap  twinkled  the  merriest 
black  eyes  that  ever  lighted  up  a  smiling 
face  of  olive  hue.  Thereafter,  he  was 
more  and  more,  with  the  thinness  of  his 
small  black  legs,  and  his  habit  of  hop 
ping  up  and  down,  and  dancing  threaten 
ingly  about,  with  mischief  latent  in  every 
motion,  like  a  crow  which  in  being  tamed 
has  acquired  one  of  the  worst  traits  of 
civilization.  He  began  babbling  and 
gurgling  in  Spanish,  and  took  my  hand 
for  a  stroll  about  the  ship,  and  from 
that  time  we  were,  with  certain  crises 
of  disaffection,  firm  allies. 

There  were  others  whom  he  hailed  and 
adopted  his  friends,  whose  legs  he  clung 
about  and  impeded  in  their  walks,  or 
whom  he  required  to  toss  him  into  the 
air  as  they  passed,  but  I  flattered  myself 


The  Amigo  145 

that  he  had  a  peculiar,  because  a  primary, 
esteem  for  myself.  I  have  thought  it 
might  be  that,  Bogota  being  said  to  be  a 
very  literary  capital,  as  those  things  go  in 
South  America,  he  was  mystically  aware 
of  a  common  ground  between  us,  wider 
and  deeper  than  that  of  his  other  friend 
ships.  But  it  may  have  been  somewhat 
owing  to  my  inviting  him  to  my  cabin 
to  choose  such  portion  as  he  would  of  a 
lady-cake  sent  us  on  shipboard  at  the 
last  hour.  He  prattled  and  chuckled 
over  it  in  the  soft  gutturals  of  his  parrot- 
like  Spanish,  and  rushed  up  on  deck  to 
eat  the  frosting  off  in  the  presence  of  his 
small  companions,  and  to  exult  before 
them  in  the  exploitation  of  a  novel 
pleasure.  Yet  it  could  not  have  been 
the  lady-cake  which  lastingly  endeared 
me  to  him,  for  by  the  next  day  he  had 
learned  prudence  and  refused  it  without 
withdrawing  his  amity. 

This,  indeed,  was  always  tempered  by 
what  seemed  a  constitutional  irony,  and 
he  did  not  impart  it  to  any  one  without 
some  time  making  his  friend  feel  the  edge 
of  his  practical  humor.  It  was  not  long 
before  the  children  whom  he  gathered  to 
his  heart  had  each  and  all  suffered  some 
fall  or  bump  or  bruise  which,  if  not  of 
his  intention  was  of  his  infliction,  and 


146  Harper's  Novelettes 

which  was  regretted  with  such  winning 
archness  that  the  very  mothers  of  them 
could  not  resist  him,  and  his  victims 
dried  their  tears  to  follow  him  with  glad 
cries  of  "  Span-yard,  Span-yard !"  In 
jury  at  his  hands  was  a  favor ;  neglect  was 
the  only  real  grievance.  He  went  about 
rolling  his  small  black  head,  and  darting 
roguish  lightnings  from  under  his  thick- 
fringed  eyes,  and  making  more  trouble 
with  a  more  enticing  gayety  than  all  the 
other  people  on  the  ship  put  together. 

The  truth  must  be  owned  that  the  time 
came,  long  before  the  end  of  the  voyage, 
when  it  was  felt  that  in  the  interest  of 
the  common  welfare,  something  must  be 
done  about  the  amigo.  At  the  conversa 
tional  end  of  the  doctor's  table  where  he 
was  discussed  whenever  the  racks  were 
not  on,  and  the  talk  might  have  lan 
guished  without  their  inspiration,  his 
badness  was  debated  at  every  meal.  Some 
declared  him  the  worst  boy  in  the  world, 
and  held  against  his  half-hearted  de 
fenders  that  something  ought  to  be  done 
about  him;  and  one  was  left  to  imagine 
all  the  darker  fate  for  him  because  there 
was  nothing  specific  in  these  convictions. 
He  could  not  be  thrown  overboard,  and 
if  he  had  been  put  in  irons  probably  his 
worst  enemies  at  the  conversational  end 


The  Amigo  147 

of  the  table  would  have  been  the  first  to 
intercede  for  him.  It  is  not  certain, 
however,  that  their  prayers  would  have 
been  effective  with  the  captain,  if  that 
officer,  framed  for  comfort  as  well  as 
command,  could  have  known  how  accu 
rately  the  amigo  had  dramatized  his  per 
sonal  presence  by  throwing  himself 
back,  and  clasping  his  hands  a  foot  in 
front  of  his  small  stomach,  and  making 
a  few  tilting  paces  forward. 

The  amigo  had  a  mimic  gift  which  he 
liked  to  exercise  when  he  could  find  no 
intelligible  language  for  the  expression 
of  his  ironic  spirit.  Being  forbidden 
visits  in  and  out  of  season  to  certain 
staterooms  whose  inmates  feigned  a 
wish  to  sleep,  he  represented  in  what 
grotesque  attitudes  of  sonorous  slumber 
they  passed  their  day,  and  he  spared 
neither  age  nor  sex  in  these  graphic 
shows.  When  age  refused  one  day  to  go 
up  on  deck  with  him  and  pleaded  in  such 
Spanish  as  it  could  pluck  up  from  its 
past  studies  that  it  was  too  old,  he  laugh 
ed  it  to  scorn.  "You  are  not  old,"  he 
said.  "Why?"  the  flattered  dotard  in 
quired.  "Because  you  smile,"  and  that 
seemed  reason  enough  for  one's  continued 
youth.  It  was  then  that  the  amigo  gave 
his  own  age,  carefully  telling  the  Spanish 


148  Harper's  Novelettes 

numerals  over,  and  explaining  further  by 
holding  up  both  hands  with  one  finger 
shut  in.  But  he  had  the  subtlety  of  cen 
turies  in  his  nine  years,  and  he  pene 
trated  the  ship  everywhere  with  his  arch 
spirit  of  mischief.  It  was  mischief  al 
ways  in  the  interest  of  the  good-fellow 
ship  which  he  offered  impartially  to  old 
and  young;  and  if  it  were  mere  frolic, 
with  no  ulterior  object,  he  did  not  care 
at  all  how  old  or  young  his  playmate  was. 
This  endeared  him  naturally  to  every 
age;  and  the  little  blond  German- Amer 
ican  boy  dried  his  tears  from  the  last 
accident  inflicted  on  him  by  the  amigo  to 
recall  him  by  tender  entreaties  of  "  Span- 
yard,  Span-yard!"  while  the  eldest  of  his 
friends  could  not  hold  out  against  him 
more  than  two  days  in  the  strained  rela 
tions  following  upon  the  amigo's  sweeping 
him  down  the  back  with  a  toy  broom  em 
ployed  by  the  German-American  boy  to 
scrub  the  scuppers.  This  was  not  so 
much  an  injury  as  an  indignity,  but  it 
was  resented  as  an  indignity,  in  spite  of 
many  demure  glances  of  propitiation 
from  the  amigo's  ironical  eyes,  and  mur 
murs  of  inarticulate  apology  as  he  passed. 
He  was,  up  to  a  certain  point,  the 
kindest  and  truest  of  amigos;  then  his 
weird  seizure  came,  and  the  baby  was 


The  Amigo  149 

spilled  out  of  the  carriage  he  had  been 
so  benevolently  pushing  up  and  down; 
or  the  second  officer's  legs,  as  he  walked 
past  with  the  prettiest  girl  on  board, 
were  hit  with  the  stick  that  the  amigo 
had  been  innocently  playing  shuffle- 
board  with;  or  some  passenger  was  taken 
unawares  in  his  vanity  or  infirmity,  and 
made  to  contribute  to  the  amigo's  pas 
sion  for  active  amusement. 

At  this  point  I  ought  to  explain  that 
the  amigo  was  not  travelling  alone  from 
Ecuador  to  Paris,  where  it  was  said  he 
was  to  rejoin  his  father.  At  meal-times, 
and  at  other  rare  intervals,  he  was  seen 
to  be  in  the  charge  of  a  very  dark  and 
very  silent  little  man,  with  intensely 
black  eyes  and  mustache,  clad  in  raven 
hues  from  his  head  to  the  delicate  feet 
on  which  he  wore  patent-leather  shoes. 
With  him  the  amigo  walked  gravely  up 
and  down  the  deck,  and  behaved  deco 
rously  at  table ;  and  we  could  not  reconcile 
the  apparent  affection  between  the  two 
with  a  theory  we  had  that  the  amigo  had 
been  found  impossible  in  his  own  coun 
try,  and  had  been  sent  out  of  Ecuador  by 
a  decree  of  the  government,  or  perhaps  a 
vote  of  the  whole  people.  The  little,  dark, 
silent  man,  in  his  patent-leather  boots, 
had  not  the  air  of  conveying  a  state 


150  Harper's  Novelettes 

prisoner  into  exile,  and  we  wondered  in 
vain  what  the  tie  between  him  and  the 
amigo  was.  He  might  have  been  his 
tutor,  or  his  uncle.  He  exercised  a  quite 
mystical  control  over  the  amigo,  who  was 
exactly  obedient  to  him  in  everything, 
and  would  not  look  aside  at  you  when  in 
his  keeping.  We  reflected  with  awe  and 
pathos  that,  as  they  roomed  together,  it 
was  his  privilege  to  see  the  amigo  asleep, 
when  that  little,  very  kissable  black  head 
rested  innocently  on  the  pillow,  and  the 
busy  brain  within  it  was  at  peace  with 
the  world  which  formed  its  pleasure  and 
its  prey  in  waking. 

It  would  be  idle  to  represent  that  the 
amigo  played  his  pranks  upon  that  ship 
load  of  long-suffering  people  with  final 
impunity.  The  time  came  when  they  not 
only  said  something  must  be  done,  but 
actually  did  something.  It  was  by  the 
hand  of  one  of  the  amigo' s  sweetest  and 
kindest  friends,  namely,  that  elderly  cap 
tain,  off  duty,  who  was  going  out  to  be 
assigned  his  ship  in  Hamburg.  From 
the  first  he  had  shown  the  affectionate 
tenderness  for  the  amigo  which  was  felt 
by  all  except  some  obdurate  hearts  at  the 
conversational  end  of  the  table;  and  it 
must  have  been  with  a  loving  interest 
in  the  amigo's  ultimate  well-being  that, 


The  Amigo  151 

taking  him  in  an  ecstasy  of  mischief,  he 
drew  the  amigo  face  downwards  across 
his  knee,  and  bestowed  the  chastisement 
which  was  morally  a  caress.  He  dis 
missed  him  with  a  smile  in  which  the 
amigo  read  the  good  understanding  that 
existed  unimpaired  between  them,  and 
accepted  his  correction  with  the  same 
affection  as  that  which  had  given  it. 
He  shook  himself  and  ran  off  with 
an  enjoyment  of  the  joke  as  great  as 
that  of  any  of  the  spectators,  and  far 
more  generous. 

In  fact  there  was  nothing  mean  in  the 
amigo.  Impish  he  was,  or  might  be,  but 
only  in  the  sort  of  the  crow  or  the  parrot ; 
there  was  no  malevolence  in  his  fine 
malice.  One  fancied  him  in  his  adoles 
cence  taking  part  in  one  of  the  frequent 
revolutions  of  his  continent,  but  humor 
ously,  not  homicidally.  He  would  like 
to  alarm  the  other  faction,  and  perhaps 
drive  it  from  power,  but  if  he  had  the  say 
there  would  be  no  bringing  the  van 
quished  out  into  the  rclaza  to  be  shot.  He 
may  now  have  been  on  his  way  to  France 
ultimately  to  study  medicine,  which 
seems  to  be  preliminary  to  a  high  political 
career  in  South  America ;  but  in  the  mean 
time  we  feared  for  him  in  that  republic 
of  severely  regulated  subordinations. 


152  Harper's  Novelettes 

We  thought  with  pathos  of  our  early 
parting  with  him,  as  we  approached  Plym 
outh  and  tried  to  be  kodaked  with  him, 
considering  it  an  honor  and  pleasure.  He 
so  far  shared  our  feeling  as  to  consent, 
but  he  insisted  on  wearing  a  pair  of 
glasses  which  had  large  eyes  painted  on 
them,  and  on  being  taken  in  the  act  of  in 
flating  a  toy  balloon.  Probably,  there 
fore,  the  likeness  would  not  be  recog 
nized  in  Bogota,  but  it  will  always  be 
endeared  to  us  by  the  memory  of  the 
many  mockeries  suffered  from  him. 
There  were  other  friends  whom  we  left 
on  the  ship,  notably  those  of  the  conver 
sational  end  of  the  table,  who  thought 
him  simply  a  bad  boy;  but  there  were 
none  of  such  peculiar  appeal  as  he,  when 
he  stood  by  the  guard,  opening  and  shut 
ting  his  hand  in  ironical  adieu,  and 
looking  smaller  and  smaller  as  our  tender 
drifted  away,  and  the  vast  liner  loomed 
immense  before  us.  He  may  have  con 
tributed  to  its  effect  of  immensity  by  the 
smallness  of  his  presence,  or  it  may  have 
dwarfed  him.  No  matter;  he  filled  no 
slight  space  in  our  lives  while  he  lasted. 
Now  that  he  is  no  longer  there,  was  he 
really  a  bad  little  boy, merely  and  simply? 
Heaven  knows,  which  alone  knows  good 
boys  from  bad. 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

BY  ELIZABETH   JORDAN 

THIS  story  is  about  Adeline  Thurs- 
ton,  and  how  she  came  into  my  life 
and  'most  wrecked  it.  Also  about 
how  she  was  foiled  by  Mabel  Blossom, 
my  noble  schoolmate  and  friend  at  St. 
Catharine's.  Thank  you,  Mabel,  for  what 
you  did,  and  forgive  me  if  I  have  not  al 
ways  seemed  to  appreciate  your  beautiful 
nature  in  these  stories.  I  do  now.  This, 
one  will  show  it.  These  lines  are  a  pref 
ace.  The  real  story  begins  on  the  line 
below  this  one: 

Adeline  Thurston  was  a  new  girl  at  St^ 
Catharine's;  but  I  would  not  write  about 
her  for  that  reason,  as  there  are  a  great 
many  new  girls  every  year,  and  all  too 
few  of  them,  alas !  are  worthy  of  the  time 
and  attention  of  a  Literary  Artist.  They 
are  pretty  much  alike,  you  know.  Usu 
ally  they  are  very  unhappy  and  quite 
haughty  for  a  few  days,  and  they  talk  a 
good  deal  about  their  homes  and  the 


154  Harper's  Novelettes 

clothes  they  have  brought  with  them,  and 
during  this  time  Maudie  Joyce  and 
Mabel  Blossom  and  Mabel  Muriel  Mur 
phy  and  I  stand  slightly  aloof  and  study 
them  with  our  wise  young  eyes  that  have 
probed  life  so  deeply.  We  four  girls  are 
the  leaders  of  the  school,  and  though  we 
are  only  fourteen,  we  are  so  mature  and 
experienced  that  all  the  others  naturally 
look  up  to  us  and  let  us  decide  things  for 
them,  as  is  fitting.  Nor  is  their  girlish 
confidence  misplaced.  Sister  Irmingarde 
once  told  a  visitor  that  we  are  "an  ex 
ceptionally  bright  quartet."  It  came 
back  to  us  afterwards,  because  the  visitor 
repeated  it  to  some  one,  and  you  can 
imagine  whether  we  were  pleased !  Then 
we  knew  why  that  guest  had  gazed  upon 
us  admiringly,  and  had  hung  upon  our 
words  the  way  she  did  when  we  were  in 
troduced  to  her  on  the  campus. 

It  is  indeed  extraordinary  how  quickly 
we  are  discovered  by  strangers.  I  sup 
pose  it  is  Maudie  Joyce's  queenly  car 
riage  they  notice  first.  Then  they  see 
Mabel  Blossom  trying  to  look  like  St. 
Cecilia  (she  always  does  when  visitors 
come),  and  next  they  observe  Mabel 
Muriel  Murphy's  dignified  mien  that  she 
learned  from  Sister  Edna.  I  don't  quite 
know  which  quality  they  admire  most  in 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      155 

me.  Perhaps  it  is  my  aloofness  from 
worldly  interests,  that  is  growing  upon 
me  more  and  more  when  new  plots  for 
stories  come  to  me.  You  cannot  expect 
the  literary  artist,  who  lives  in  a  dream 
world,  to  be  conscious  of  the  small  affairs 
of  those  around  her;  so,  very  often,  I 
don't  even  see  people  when  I  pass  them. 
The  other  day  in  the  hall  I  walked  right 
over  two  minims  and  upset  them,  and, 
my!  didn't  they  yell!  But  when  they 
found  out  who  had  done  it  they  flushed 
with  childish  joy  and  pride,  and  I  could 
hardly  make  them  get  up.  They  seemed 
to  want  to  stay  right  there.  They  were 
nice  little  things,  only  eight,  so  I  spoke  to 
them  very  kindly  after  I  stood  them  on 
their  feet,  and  I  advised  them  concerning 
their  studies;  they  are  bragging  about  it 
yet.  How  easy  it  is  to  make  the  young 
happy!  Oh,  innocent,  care-free  days  of 
childhood,  how  oft  do  I  recall  ye  now  in 
these  grim  months  of  intellectual  strife, 
when  we  seem  to  be  having  written  ex 
aminations  all  the  time !  But  I  must  not 
digress.  I  am  learning  not  to.  I  will  re 
turn  to  Adeline. 

As  I  said  before,  when  new  girls  come 
to  St.  Catharine's,  Maudie,  and  Mabel 
Blossom  and  Mabel  Muriel  and  I  spend 
a  few  days  in  quiet  observation  of  them 


1 56  Harper's  Novelettes 

before  we  decide  whether  to  admit  them 
into  our  very  innermost  circle  right  away, 
or  to  leave  them  for  a  few  months  in 
"  outer  darkness,"  as  Mabel  Blossom 
calls  it.  Outer  darkness  is  a  kind  of  pro 
bation,  and  if  they  are  eager  and  humble 
they  can  learn  things  there  that  help  to 
fit  them  for  our  society.  At  first  they  are 
apt  to  be  quite  haughty  about  it,  and  say 
they  don't  care,  and  try  to  act  as  if  they 
didn't;  but  in  the  end  they  are  glad  in 
deed  to  sit  at  our  feet.  And  they  all 
listen  to  my  stories,  too,  and  look  at  us 
with  the  awe  which  is  fitting  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  gifted.  Most  of  them  seem  to 
admire  me  more  than  the  others,  but  of 
course  I  know  it  is  for  my  Art,  of  which 
I  am  but  the  humble  instrument. 

Well,  we  expected  that  Adeline  Thurs- 
ton  would  do  this  too,  but  from  the  very 
first  it  was  different  with  her,  somehow. 
She  was  fourteen,  and  tall  for  her  age, 
and  she  had  brown  hair  and  very  light 
blue  eyes,  and  they  were  near-sighted,  so 
she  squinted  a  little,  and  she  didn't  dress 
very  well.  She  wore  queer-looking,  baggy 
dresses  with  girdles  around  the  waist,  and 
she  told  Maudie  Joyce  she  designed  them 
all  herself,  and  that  her  mother  let  her. 
She  said  they  were  individual  and  artis 
tic.  She  had  her  collars  cut  low  at  the 


Adeline  Thttrston,  Poetess      157 

neck  to  show  the  curves  of  the  throat,  she 
said;  but  there  weren't  any  curves,  and 
Mabel  Blossom  said  perhaps  they  had 
been  thoughtlessly  left  at  home.  She 
didn't  say  this  to  Adeline,  of  course ;  only 
to  us.  Adeline  didn't  seem  to  mind  a  bit 
because  we  didn't  take  her  into  our  very 
innermost  circle  right  away.  She  kept 
by  herself  a  great  deal,  and  was  very 
reserved  and  mysterious,  so  all  the 
girls  began  to  talk  about  her.  Then 
I  studied  her  a  little  myself,  for  if  she 
had  a  carking  care  or  a  secret  sorrow  I 
wanted  to  discover  it  and  write  a  story 
about  it.  But  I  couldn't  discover  any 
thing  except  that  she  chewed  chalk  dur 
ing  the  history  hour,  and  wore  the  same 
collar  three  days,  and  wasn't  careful 
about  sewing  buttons  on  her  shoes  when 
they  fell  off,  and  never  had  the  parting 
of  her  hair  straight,  and  had  a  tooth  'way 
back  that  needed  to  be  filled.  I  was  not 
giving  her  much  of  my  attention,  for  I 
was  almost  sure  a  new  plot  was  working 
in  me,  and  at  such  times  I  just  sit  and 
wait  with  bated  breath  to  see  what  it 
is  going  to  be.  All  the  girls  let  me 
alone  then,  for  fear  they  will  divert  my 
mind  from  my  Art.  But  the  plot  didn't 
come  and  nothing  happened,  and  I  got 
tired  waiting. 


158  Harper's  Novelettes 

So,  finally,  when  Mabel  Blossom  and 
Maudie  Joyce  began  to  tell  me  the 
things  that  were  being  said  about  Ade 
line  Thurston,  I  turned  a  lenient  ear  to 
their  girlish  prattle.  They  said  that  Ade 
line  spent  hours  and  hours  and  hours  by 
herself  in  the  different  parts  of  the 
grounds,  dreaming  on  the  river  bank  or 
musing  under  the  trees.  And  they  said  she 
was  doing  some  kind  of  special  work,  they 
didn't  know  what,  and  that  after  the 
Grand  Silence  had  fallen  and  the  convent 
lay  dark  and  still,  Adeline  Thurston  arose 
from  her  snowy  bed  and  did  things  most 
of  the  night.  No  one  knew  what  the 
things  were,  for  Adeline  wouldn't  tell. 
She  only  looked  mysterious  when  they 
asked,  and  sighed  and  said  perhaps  they'd 
know  some  day. 

I  could  see  that  Maudie  Joyce  was  get 
ting  excited  about  it,  and  terribly  in 
terested.  You  know  how  romantic  she  is, 
and  I  guess  perhaps  she  thought  Adeline 
was  eating  out  her  girlish  heart  over 
some  hidden  grief.  She  began  to  be  nice 
to  Adeline,  and  went  and  sat  beside  her 
several  times,  and  walked  with  her  one 
evening  in  the  grounds ;  but  Adeline  took 
it  all  as  quietly  as  if  Maudie  had  been 
one  of  the  minims  instead  of  the  queen- 
liest  girl  in  school.  Once  when  Maudie 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      159 

asked  her  to  take  a  walk  she  excused  her 
self  and  said  she  had  something  else  to 
do!  Maudie's  face  looked  funny  when 
she  told  me  that,  for  her  proud  nature 
had  never  before  known  such  a  rebuff, 
but  she  didn't  get  angry.  She  just  got 
more  interested  than  ever  and  kept  right 
on  being  nice  to  Adeline,  and  was  with 
her  so  much  that  Mabel  and  I  hardly  saw 
her  for  days  at  a  time.  I  could  tell  just 
here  how  our  sensitive  natures  suffered 
over  it,  too,  but  I  won't,  for  this  story  is 
not  about  us.  It  is  about  Adeline,  though 
of  course  my  dear  friend  Mabel  Blossom 
comes  into  it  a  great  deal,  on  account  of 
the  deeds  she  did. 

Well,  one  afternoon  Maudie  Joyce 
came  to  me  looking  as  excited  as  if  she 
had  just  been  an  ordinary  girl  with  no 
queenly  carriage  and  no  control  over  her 
emotions.  She  said  she  would  confide  to 
me  a  great  secret  if  I  would  never,  never, 
never  tell,  and  of  course  I  promised.  I 
kept  my  word,  too,  as  a  General's  daugh 
ter  must  do,  and  you'd  better  believe  it 
wasn't  easy,  either,  with  Mabel  Blossom 
asking  me  what  it  was  and  then  looking 
hurt  because  I  wouldn't  tell.  My  suffer 
ings  were  dreadful.  So  were  Mabel's. 
Hers  were  worse,  I  guess;  anyhow,  she 
seemed  to  think  they  were.  So  finally  I 

XX 


160  Harper's  Novelettes 

got  Maudie  to  tell  her,  too,  and  then  we 
all  three  knew.  I  will  now  tell  the  in 
terested  reader,  after  keeping  him  in  sus 
pense  a  while,  according  to  the  rules  of 
my  Art.  Sister  Irmingarde  says  I  should 
not  explain  in  my  stories  ivhy  I  do  things 
— but  I  really  must.  I  am  afraid  the 
reader  will  not  know  if  I  don't.  I  will 
now  tell  the  secret,  and  it  will  probably 
make  your  heart  stop  beating,  just  as  it 
did  mine.  And  then  maybe  you  will  get 
a  queer  kind  of  a  sinking,  sick  feeling  in 
your  stomach.  I  did. 

For  Adeline  Thurston  was  a  poet !  She 
wrote  poems. 

That  was  what  she  was  doing  when  she 
sat  up  nights.  And  that  was  why  she 
liked  to  be  alone.  She  was  getting  in 
spiration,  Maudie  said.  And  then,  while 
I  was  trying  to  take  it  all  in,  and  not 
doing  it  very  well,  either,  Maudie  grabbed 
my  arm  and  began  to  pull  me  toward  the 
river.  I  tried  to  speak,  but  she  put  her 
finger  on  her  lips,  and  after  we  had  walk 
ed  quite  a  long  way  she  began  to  move 
stealthily,  like  an  Indian,  and  of  course 
I  did,  too.  We  were  careful  not  to  step 
on  twigs  that  would  crackle,  and  not  to 
brush  the  branches  of  the  willows  as  we 
passed  under  them.  Finally  we  came  to 
a  kind  of  an  open  place  and  Maudie  ino- 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      161 

tioned  to  me  to  stop,  and  she  put  her 
fingers  to  her  lips  again  and  pointed  at 
something,  and  then  I  understood  why 
we  had  come.  The  sun  was  sinking  into 
rest,  and  the  river  lay  bathed  in  its  dying 
rays.  Please  read  that  sentence  twice, 
for  I  worked  hard  on  it,  and  I  would 
like  to  have  it  appreciated.  Something 
else  was  bathed  in  i+s  dying  rays,  too,  and 
that  was  what  Maudie  Joyce  was  point 
ing  at.  It  was  Adeline  Thurston,  and  she 
stood  with  her  back  to  us,  and  her  arms 
stretched  out  toward  the  expiring  King 
of  Day.  That  means  the  sun.  Her  head 
was  away  back  and  turned  a  little,  and 
we  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  raised 
and  her  mouth  was  open.  Some  careless, 
thoughtless  observers  might  have  imag 
ined  something  was  the  matter  with  Ade 
line,  but  I  knew  better.  I  knew  she  was 
having  an  attack  of  the  artistic  tempera 
ment,  like  I  do  myself,  only  mine  acts 
different  on  the  outside  of  me. 

For  a  moment  I  looked  at  the  beautiful 
picture,  and  my  heart  beat  so  I  thought 
Maudie  would  hear  it,  and  my  eyes  filled 
with  slow,  hot  tears.  Then  I  glanced  at 
Maudie,  and  the  uplifted  look  on  her 
pure  young  face  brought  on  a  strange, 
sinking,  sick  feeling.  Maudie  was  staring 
at  Adeline  as  if  her  eyes  would  drop  out. 


1 62  Harper's  Novelettes 

She  had  never  looked  at  me  like  that — 
not  even  when  Sister  Irmingarde  was 
reading  one  of  my  stories  aloud  to  the 
class.  So  I  knew  she  admired  Adeline's 
poetry  more  than  she  did  my  stories.  I 
will  now  describe  what  was  in  my  heart. 

You  see,  up  to  this  time  I  had  been  the 
only  Author  at  St.  Catharine's,  and  of 
course  it  was  a  great  thing  for  the  girls 
to  have  one  of  their  classmates  a  real 
story-teller.  I  have  tried  to  keep  humble 
and  to  remember  that  I  am  only  the  stove 
in  which  the  sacred  fire  burns,  as  it  were, 
but  it  was  nice  to  have  the  girls  make 
so  much  of  me,  and  it  was  nice,  too — kind 
of  nice,  anyhow — to  know  that  some  of 
them  were  jealous.  And  it  was  nice  to 
have  the  younger  girls  ask  if  they  might 
introduce  their  mothers  and  fathers  to 
me  when  they  came  to  visit  them,  and 
to  see  the  little  minims  swell  with  pride 
when  I  remembered  to  nod  to  them.  And 
now  there  was  another  Author  at  St. 
Catharine's — and  a  poetess  at  that — and 
she  would  get  all  the  attention,  I  knew. 

So  my  heart  kept  sinking  down  more 
and  more,  till  I  was  afraid  something 
might  happen  if  I  stayed  there,  and  I 
turned  and  left  as  quietly  as  we  had 
come.  Maudie  followed  me.  When  we 
got  a  long  distance  from  the  poetess 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      163 

Maudie  grabbed  my  arm  and  asked  me  if 
I  didn't  think  it  was  wonderful.  Her  eyes 
were  shining  and  she  was  very  much  exci 
ted  still.  Then  suddenly  I  remembered 
something  and  I  felt  a  little  better.  I  asked 
Maudie  if  Adeline  had  ever  really  written 
any  poems,  or  if  she  just  stood  round  like 
that  and  thought  about  them  all  to  herself. 
Maudie  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket 
without  a  word  and  drew  out — well,  I 
wouldn't  dare  to  say  how  many  poems  of 
Adeline  Thurston's  she  drew  out,  because 
you  would  surely  think  I  was  exaggera 
ting.  But  there  were  so  many  of  them 
that  Maudie  had  to  carry  her  pocket-hand 
kerchief  in  the  front  of  her  shirt-waist. 
We  sat  down  and  read  them  then  and 
there;  and  if  I  felt  sick  before,  you  can 
believe  I  felt  sicker  as  I  read  the  outpour 
ings  of  that  gifted  soul  of  fire.  Maudie 
wouldn't  let  me  keep  any  of  them  even 
long  enough  to  copy,  but  I  remember  one 
or  two,  and  the  first  one  went  something 
like  this: 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SEA 

The  song  of  the  sea  is  in  my  ear, 
Its  lonely,  dreary  cry  I  hear. 
It  calls  to  me,  would  I  could  go 
And  leave  this  world  of  friend  and  foe. 
Oh,  would  that  on  the  drifting  sea 
My  body  would  float  along  so  free, 


164  Harper's  Novelettes 

My  heart  still  back  in  life  with  Maude, 
My  soul  in  heaven,  near  to  God. 

I  didn't  like  it  very  well — that  one. 
There  seemed  to  me  to  be  something  the 
matter  with  it,  somehow,  though  it  was 
certainly  sad  and  tragic.  Maudie  thought 
it  was  beautiful — especially  the  last  two 
lines.  I  learned  it  by  heart  and  recited  it 
to  Mabel  Blossom  later,  after  Maudie 
said  I  might,  and  Mabel  thought  there 
was  something  the  matter  with  it,  too; 
and  she  said  the  poetess  seemed  to  be  so 
kind  of  scattered  toward  the  end  of  the 
poem  that  it  made  her  (Mabel)  feel  nerv 
ous.  I  felt  better  right  away  when  Ma 
bel  said  that,  for  the  child  has  an  un 
erring  literary  instinct  and  likes  all  my 
stories.  I  remembered  another  poem  and 
said  it,  and  we  didn't  like  that  very  much, 
either.  It  went  like  this : 

WHEN  I  AM  GONE 

Oh,  bury  me  deep  'neath  the  starlit  sky, 

Oh,  bury  me  deep  and  long, 
Where  I  can  hear  the  whippoorwill's  twilight 
cry 

And  list  to  the  robin's  song. 
And  drop  no  tear  on  my  new-made  mound, 

Nor  moan  o'er  my  lifeless  clay. 
Tis  true  that  my  body  is  underground, 

But  my  soul  will  be  far  away. 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      165 

Mabel  said  she  never  knew  any  one 
who  seemed  so  anxious  to  have  her  body 
and  soul  in  different  places,  but  I  re 
minded  her  that  all  poets  were  like  that. 
It  goes  with  the  artistic  temperament, 
and  I  said  I  had  often  felt  it  myself. 
Then  Mabel  giggled,  and  I  didn't  mind  a 
bit.  She  said  she  was  giggling  at  the 
poetry,  and  I  laughed,  too,  and  I  cannot 
tell  you  the  strange  relief  I  felt  all  of  a 
sudden.  Sister  Irmingarde  says  the  ar 
tistic  temperament  is  mercurial,  and  I 
guess  she  is  right.  My  nature  is  very 
buoyant  except  when  I'm  writing  stories. 
Then  I  most  always  feel  sad  and  life 
seems  terrible.  Mabel  Blossom  says  she 
feels  just  the  same,  but  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why  she  should.  She  doesn't  write 
the  stories ;  but  she  says  it  is  because  she 
is  in  them.  Perhaps  that  does  give  her  a 
claim  to  the  artistic  temperament. 

But  I'm  away  ahead  of  my  story  again, 
which  is  one  of  my  most  serious  literary 
faults.  I  will  return  to  Maudie  and  the 
poems  she  and  I  read  by  the  river  bank. 

Maudie  thought  all  the  poems  were 
beautiful.  Of  course,  she  said,  they  were 
not  as  good  as  Keats — she  raves  over 
Keats — nor  as  good  as  one  or  two  things 
Browning  did  — "  Blue  ran  the  flash 
across,  violets  were  born,"  for  instance. 


1 66  Harper's  Novelettes 

She  is  always  quoting  that.  But  she 
said  Adeline  Thurston  was  young,  and  if 
she  lived  a  few  years  more  would  give 
some  great  songs  to  the  world.  She  said 
it  just  that  way.  And  she  said  they 
showed  that  Adeline  was  a  deep  student 
of  life,  like  us,  and  "probed  humanity's 
heart  to  its  core."  She  took  that  about 
humanity's  heart  from  a  lecture  we  had 
last  month.  She  said  Adeline  had  said 
she  might  bring  me  to  the  river  to  look 
at  her,  from  a  distance,  but  we  were  not 
to  speak  or  make  a  noise,  as  we  might 
disturb  some  Thought.  And  Adeline  said 
she  might  tell  a  few  of  the  other  girls, 
too,  but  to  warn  them  not  to  disturb  her 
or  to  address  her  too  abruptly  when  they 
met  her.  She  said  a  poem  getting  born 
in  the  heart  was  like  a  bird  sitting  on  a 
tree,  and  that  it  was  easily  scared  away. 

Well,  that  was  the  beginning  of  it  all. 
I  will  now  describe  what  followed. 
Maudie  told  a  few  more  girls,  and  then 
more  and  more,  till  pretty  soon  the  whole 
school  knew  it,  and  no  one  talked  of  any 
thing  but  Adeline  and  her  poetry.  Every 
evening  at  sunset  she  disappeared,  and  a 
little  later  all  the  girls  would  follow  very 
quietly  and  look  at  her  from  a  distance 
as  she  stood  bathed  in  the  sun's  dying 
rays.  I've  said  that  before,  but  it's  such 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      167 

a  good  thing  Fm  going  to  say  it  again. 
Adeline  always  had  her  head  back  and  her 
arms  out  and  her  lips  parted.  I  didn't  go 
after  the  first  time.  Once  was  enough. 
But  every  one  else  did,  and  talked  and 
talked  and  talked  till  I  was  dreadfully 
tired  of  it,  especially  as  I  was  writing  a 
story  at  the  time,  and  they  used  to  inter 
rupt  me,  which  they  never  did  in  the  dear 
old  days  that  are  no  more.  Adeline's 
room  was  in  a  corner  of  the  old  wing,  and 
its  one  window  looked  over  the  river 
and  distant  hills.  None  of  the  Sisters 
could  see  that  window  from  the  Cloister, 
and  only  two  of  the  girls  could,  but  these 
two  said  a  light  burned  in  Adeline's  room 
all  night  long.  They  used  to  wake  up 
and  look  at  it,  and  tell  the  other  girls  the 
next  day.  And  every  morning  Adeline 
would  come  to  breakfast  as  pale  as  chalk 
and  tired  to  death,  and  pressing  her 
hands  against  her  heart  and  looking  in 
scrutable  when  any  one  spoke  to  her.  Of 
course  the  Sisters  didn't  know  she  worked 
nights,  or  they  would  have  stopped  it. 
She  told  Maudie  she  knew  she  was  not 
long  for  life,  so  she  must  use  every  mo 
ment  and  finish  her  book  of  poems  so 
it  could  be  published  right  after  she 
died.  Maudie  cried  when  she  told  me 
that.  She  said  it  seemed  so  sad.  I  did 


i68  Harper's  Novelettes 

not  cry.  Neither  did  Mabel  Blossom. 
She  giggled.  Oh,  how  I  love  Mabel's 
light-hearted  girlishness  and  how  I  en 
joy  her  society!  I  wish  to  say  right  out 
in  this  story  that  she  is  the  most  con 
genial  friend  I  have  at  St.  Catharine's. 

One  night  about  eleven  o'clock  I  was 
tossing  feverishly  on  my  couch,  and 
thinking  of  my  Art  and  of  Adeline's  Art, 
and  wondering  why  the  girls  liked  poetry 
so  much  better  than  stories.  I  was  not 
jealous;  I  was  just  puzzled;  and  no  plots 
were  stirring  in  me,  and  I  didn't  care.  I 
made  a  discovery,  too.  I  learned  that  the 
Artist's  Art  is  not  enough  to  fill  life. 
You  need  other  things.  You  do  your 
stories  for  the  good  of  the  world  and  to 
make  it  happy.  And  if  the  world  won't 
read  them  or  listen  to  them,  it's  no  fun 
to  write  them.  Then  I  felt  dreadfully 
homesick  and  very  unhappy,  and  I  want 
ed  to  go  home  to  mamma  and  my  sister 
Grace,  and  Georgie. 

Just  then  I  heard  a  stealthy  step  at  my 
portal,  and  then  the  door  began  to  open" 
very  quietly.  I  was  so  unhappy  that  if 
it  was  burglars  I  didn't  care,  but  I  sat 
up  in  bed  and  looked,  and  it  was  Mabel 
Blossom  in  her  nightgown  with  a  bath 
robe  over  it.  She  said : 

"  May,  are  you  awake  ?  Don't  be  fright- 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      169 

ened,  but  get  up  and  come  with  me.  I've 
got  something  to  show  you.  Don't  ask 
any  questions,  but  hurry." 

So  I  got  up  and  slipped  into  the  ki 
mono  Grace  gave  me  Christmas.  It's  silk, 
and  dark  red  and  blue,  and  it  has  flow 
ing  sleeves,  and  Mabel  and  Maudie  say  it's 
very  becoming  to  me.  And  I  went  con 
fidingly  and  trustfully  out  into  the  dark 
hall  with  my  dear  friend  Mabel,  though 
I  hadn't  the  least  idea  what  she  was  going 
to  do.  We  stole  along  hand  in  hand  till 
we  came  to  the  door  of  Adeline  Thurs- 
ton's  room.  Then  Mabel  stopped  and  very 
quietly  and  coolly  opened  it  and  signed 
to  me  to  look  in.  I  did.  I  thought  maybe 
Adeline  expected  us,  but,  alas!  alas!  she 
did  not.  She  was  in  bed,  all  undressed, 
sound  asleep,  and  breathing  long,  even 
breaths.  And  right  near  the  window, 
burning  its  very  best,  was  a  little  lamp, 
shining  out  into  the  night  the  way  the 
widow's  lamp  does  when  she  puts  it  into 
the  window  for  her  wandering  sailor  son. 
We  both  looked  good  and  hard,  and  we 
looked  and  looked,  but  there  was  no  mis 
take.  Adeline  was  in  bed  and  sleeping, 
and  the  lamp  was  put  there  so  those  two 
girls  who  could  see  it  would  see  it  and 
think  she  was  working.  Mabel  and  I 
crept  back  to  my  room  in  silence,  and  then 


Harper's  Novelettes 

I  said  perhaps  Adeline  had  worked  and 
had  just  fallen  into  an  exhausted  slumber, 
and  would  soon  awake  and  get  up.  Mabel 
giggled  and  said  Adeline  had  been  in  the 
same  kind  of  an  exhausted  slumber  the 
night  before  when  she  had  looked.  And 
she  giggled  again  and  told  me  to  go  to 
bed,  and  that  she  would  convince  me  yet. 
That  was  about  eleven  o'clock.  Would 
you  believe  it, — three  hours  later,  at  two, 
Mabel  came  again  and  we  did  the  same 
thing,  and  we  saw  the  same  picture — the 
faithful  lamp,  put  where  it  would  do  the 
most  good,  and  the  slumbering  poet. 

In  the  mean  time  I  had  been  thinking  it 
all  over.  I  was  so  excited  I  couldn't  sleep 
much,  and  the  second  time  we  saw  it  I 
told  Mabel  that  it  must  be  a  secret  be 
tween  us  and  that  we  must  never,  never 
tell.  I  said  it  would  be  dreadful  for  the 
school  to  have  such  a  thing  come  out. 
Then  Mabel  looked  at  me  and  asked  if  it 
was  right  to  have  the  girls  fooled  like 
that.  But  I  knew  we  must  be  just,  for, 
after  all,  Adeline  did  write  the  poems,  and 
it  was  not  our  affair  when  she  did  it,  and 
of  course  we  had  no  right  in  her  bed 
room.  We  had  spied  on  her  and  it  was 
dishonorable.  I  felt  dreadfully  about 
that,  for  a  distinguished  officer's  daughter 
must  have  what  Sister  Irmingarde  calls 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      171 

"  a  high  standard  of  personal  honor."  So 
I  convinced  Mabel,  and  she  promised  not 
to  tell  any  one.  Then  she  went  right 
straight  to  Maudie  Joyce's  room  and  woke 
her  and  led  her  to  Adeline's  room,  jnst  as 
she  had  led  me,  and  let  her  see  with  her 
own  eyes.  I  did  not  know  that  till  the 
next  day.  Then  Mabel  explained  that  she 
had  not  told  Maudie  anything;  she  had 
just  let  her  see  for  herself. 

At  breakfast,  when  none  of  the  Sisters 
was  near,  Mabel  asked  Adeline  quite  care 
lessly  if  she  had  worked  the  night  before. 
Adeline  was  rolling  her  eyes  and  pressing 
her  head  and  looking  exhausted  the  way 
she  always  did  in  the  morning.  She  said 
at  once  that  she  had  not  "  slept  a  wink  " 
the  night  before,  as  she  was  "  engaged  on 
an  important  piece  of  work."  And  then, 
for  the  first  time,  she  said  to  us  all  what 
she  had  told  Maudie  Joyce  so  often. 

"  I  shall  not  inhabit  this  frail  body 
long,"  she  sighed,  "  so  I  must  use  every 
moment  day  and  night."  Maudie  Joyce 
looked  at  her  when  she  said  this,  and  I 
saw  the  look.  I  knew  right  off  that  either 
Mabel  Blossom  had  told  or  Maudie  had 
discovered  for  herself  the  shameful, 
blighting  truth. 

That  evening  Maudie  Joyce  came  to 
my  room  and  kissed  me  the  minute  I 


172  Harper's  Novelettes 

opened  the  door.  Then  she  cried  and  said 
she  had  treated  me  shamefully,  and  asked 
if  I  hated  her;  and  I  said  I  didn't — that 
I  loved  her  next  to  mamma  and  papa  and 
Grace  and  Georgie  and  Jack  and  Mabel 
Blossom.  It  didn't  seem  to  cheer  her 
very  much,  though,  but  she  went  on  to  tell 
me  something  that  made  me  gasp  and  sit 
down  in  a  hurry,  I  can  tell  you.  She  said 
that  after  breakfast  she  had  gone  right 
to  Adeline  Thurston's  room  and  asked 
her  why  she  deceived  us  so,  and  Adeline 
cried  and  confessed  that  she  had  made  up 
the  whole  thing  because  she  wanted  to 
be  popular ! 

Then  Maudie  Joyce  rose  in  her  just  and 
queenly  wrath  and  paced  the  floor  with 
swift  footsteps  as  she  told  me  what  hap 
pened  next.  "  I  told  her  she  could  either 
confess  to  the  girls  and  let  us  forget  and 
begin  all  over,"  Maudie  said,  "  or  that  I 
would  tell  them  myself,  and  she  would  be 
left  in  Outer  Darkness  the  rest  of  the 
year.  So  she  said  she  would  confess.  She 
is  doing  it  now.  I  didn't  want  to  listen 
to  it  all  again,  and  somehow  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  have  gone  to  hear  it,  either. 
You're  a  trump,  May  Iverson." 

Oh,  how  my  heart  swelled  as  I  listened 
to  those  last  sweet  words !  And  right  then 
I  made  another  discovery.  Of  course  one 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess      173 

loves  one's  parents  and  sister  and  brother 
and  little  nephew  and  Mabel  Blossom,  but 
there  is  something  different  about  the  love 
you  feel  for  a  girl  like  Maudie  Joyce.  It's 
so  vast,  so  intense,  so  all-absorbing!  But 
I  didn't  tell  Maudie  so.  I  just  kissed  her 
and  said  it  was  all  right  and  she  was  a 
dear  thing.  Alas!  how  insufficient  are 
mere  words  to  convey  the  deepest  emo 
tions  of  the  human  heart ! 

It  is  strange,  but  the  very  minute  that 
matter  was  settled  I  began  to  feel  queer 
— broody  and  intense  and  absent-minded, 
and  full  of  strange,  sad  thoughts  about 
life.  Sister  Irmingarde  looked  worried 
last  night  and  asked  if  I  wasn't  under 
some  nervous  strain,  but  it  wasn't  that. 
It's  another  story  coming ! 


" Dad's  Grave" 

BY  J.   ELWIN   SMITH 

IT  was  that  between-time  of  spring  and 
summer  when  the  sunshine  is  full  of 
a  peculiar  soft  radiance,  and  vegeta 
tion  has  something  of  the  child's  look  of 
wonder  clinging  about  it,  a  fleeting  trans 
ient  expression,  exquisitely  pure  and  del 
icate,  the  .first  freshness  of  the  new  life, 
unsullied  as  yet  by  heat  or  dust.  No 
where  did  the  light  seem  to  rest  so  ten 
derly,  or  with  such  revelation  of  the 
mystic  rising  again  of  nature  from  hid 
den  germ  and  embryo,  as  in  the  green 
little  cemetery  shut  in  from  the  street, 
with  its  mission  of  guardianship.  Every; 
form  seemed  to  tingle  and  thrill  with 
life;  the  birds  pouring  it  out  again  in 
quick,  short,  or  long  trilling  notes;  the 
fresh  young  leaves  with  their  evanescent 
purity  of  tint;  the  bushes  that  looked  as 
if  some  one  had  shaken  them,  suddenly 
into  pink,  yellow,  and  white  blossoming; 
the  hosts  of  little  black  ants  running  to 


"  Dad's  Grave  "  175 

and  fro  on  the  sandy  paths.  The  very 
slenderest  blade  of  grass  thrusting  itself 
up  from  the  sod  was  a  tiny  being  with 
the  right  to  its  moment  of  existence  in 
the  bright  sunshine;  and  there  was  the 
sense  of  the  gladness  of  living  that 
touches  one  so  strangely  often  where  the 
dead  are  resting.  It  is  as  if  Life  loved  to 
creep  up  close  to  Death,  and  lay  her 
warm  pulsating  hand  over  his  silence  and 
coldness.  Over  by  the  fence,  to  the  right 
of  the  little  stone  cemetery  chapel,  were 
the  numbered  graves.  They  lay  in  long 
rows,  divided  by  the  narrowest  of  foot 
paths,  and  at  the  head  of  every  mound 
was  its  number,  sometimes  dangling  from 
a  slender  iron  prop,  sometimes  marked 
simply  on  an  oblong  piece  of  wood  driven 
deep  into  the  ground.  The  foot-soldiers, 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  dead,  seemed 
these  graves;  the  many  who  had  won  no 
distinction,  who  bore  no  decoration  of 
grief  or  love,  of  worldly  respect  or 
wealth.  If  man  or  woman,  young  or  old, 
slept  here,  there  was  nothing  to  tell;  no 
epitome  of  their  virtues,  none  of  the 
clinging  sorrow  that  so  often  breathes  to 
us  from  a  memorial  inscription.  Side  by 
side,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  mute  un 
conscious  fellowship  they  lay,  resting  as 

profoundly  as,  and  not  one  whit  less  in- 
za 


1 76  Harper's  Novelettes 

vested  with  death's  mystery  and  dignity 
than  their  neighbors,  the  occupants  of  the 
enclosures  at  a  little  distance,  whose  head 
stones  gleamed  white  and  red  through 
the  living  grace  of  the  trees  and  bushes. 

On  the  broad  gravel-walk  running  past 
these  graves  stood  three  children,  for  the 
eldest  was  scarcely  more  than  a  child, 
though  she  held  the  other  two  protecting- 
ly  by  the  hand.  The  latter  were  in  the 
dress  of  city  Homes,  always  subtly  pa 
thetic  when  seen  on  children,  while  the 
elder  girl  wore  a  scanty  black  frock  and 
shabby  mourning  hat,  into  which  a  little 
bit  of  rusty-looking  crape  was  twisted  for 
sole  trimming.  Her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  Every  now  and  then  they  brimmed 
over,  and  the  big  drops  would  roll  down, 
though  she  was  evidently  much  too  re 
sponsible  a  little  person  to  cry  out  loud. 

"Hollo!  What's  the  matter?"  said  a 
voice,  suddenly.  "Anybody  belongin'  to 
you  buried  here?" 

The  girl  turned  round  with  a  start.  A 
boy  had  come  up  close  to  them,  rather  a 
queer-looking  boy,  with  a  tangle  of  light- 
colored  hair  falling  over  his  forehead,  big, 
protruding,  pale-blue  eyes,  in  which  there 
was  a  wandering  speculativeness,  and  a 
very  thin  face.  His  arms  and  legs  were 
also  thin,  and  he  gave  the  impression  of 


44 Dad's  Grave''  177 

never  being  too  warm,  even  in  summer 
time.  There  was  a  raggedness  about  his 
clothes  more  suggestive  of  neglect  than 
absolute  poverty.  The  elbows  innocent  of 
patches;  the  trousers  cut  short  at  the 
knee,  and  a  world  too  wide  for  the  spind 
ly  legs  that,  encased  in  loose  black  stock 
ings,  moved  half  apologetically  under 
neath;  the  shoes  several  sizes  too  large — 
all  combined  to  produce  a  certain  for- 
lornness  of  aspect  which  seemed  to  cling 
to  the  boy,  together  with  a  curious  old- 
mannish  independence.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  forlorn  independence  common  to 
both  children  that  drew  them  instinc 
tively  to  one  another,  and  prompted  the 
ready  confidence  of  the  girl's  answer: 

"  It's  dad.  But  I  can't  find  him.  He's 
got  mixed  up  with  somebody  else." 

"  How's  that  ?"  said  the  boy,  seating 
himself  on  the  extreme  edge  of  a  neigh 
boring  grave.  "Didn't  you  'tend  his 
funeral?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "Dad  had 
fever  awful  bad,  and  I  got  it  too,  and  we 
was  both  took  to  the  hospittle.  When  I 
got  better,  they  told  me  dad  was  dead  and 
buried,  and  giv'  me  this  number,"  hold 
ing  out  a  slip  of  paper. 

The  boy  nodded  affirmatively.  "And 
ain't  it  right?" 


Harper's  Novelettes 

"No.  When  I  showed  it  to  the  man 
at  the  gate,  he  said  there  wasn't  no  such 
person  here;  that  there  must  ha*  ben  a 
mistake,  and  dad  got  buried  under  the 
wrong  name.  And  I  didn't  like  to  bother 
him  much." 

"  That's  queer,"  said  the  boy,  walking 
thoughtfully  along  one  of  the  narrow 
footpaths  dividing  the  graves.  "What 
kind  of  a  man  was  your  dad,  tall  or 
short?" 

"  Tall,"  answered  the  girl;  "taller  than 
him,"  pointing  to  a  man  passing  at  a  lit 
tle  distance;  "thin  too,  kind  a  lathy 
like;"  and  her  eyes  hung  on  the  boy's 
movements  with  a  sort  of  unreasoning 
hope. 

Very  critically,  and  with  a  judicial 
compression  of  the  lips,  he  eyed  the 
mounds  on  either  hand,  as  if  measuring 
the  dimensions  of  the  hidden  occupant. 
Then,  with  a  shake  of  the  head  at  once 
profound  and  discouraging,  he  returned 
to  his  former  position. 

"  I  guess  you  won't  find  him.  Is  your 
mother  dead  too?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"  So's  mine.  That's  why  I  come  here 
so  much.  She's  buried  just  over  there, 
number  2864." 

"Did  she  die  of  fever?"  asked  his  com- 


44 Dad's  Grave  "  179 

panion,  for  the  boy  had  paused,  and  was 
looking  at  her,  evidently  expectant  of  a 
remark. 

"  No ;  'sumption.  Dad  says,  when  he's 
drunk,  that  I'm  goin'  off  just  like  her,  and 
the  sooner  the  better.  I  guess  I  am,  too. 
My  cough's  awful  bad  at  times." 

"Ain't  you  scared?"  said  the  girl, 
watching  him  with  wide,  curious  eyes. 

"  Not  much.  I  guess  it  ain't  any  worse 
than  livin'  down  here.  Dad  knocks  one 
round  a  good  deal  when  he's  drunk.  I 
wonder,  though,  if  they  make  any  dif- 
f'rence  up  there  between  the  people  that 
buys  their  own  graves  and  them  that's 
buried  by  the  parish." 

"Why?" 

"  'Cause  dad  bought  mother's  grave, 
and  I  guess  if  I  was  to  die  right  off  now, 
he'd  buy  mine  too.  But  he's  drinkin'  so 
that  if  I'm  long  about  it  he  won't  have 
no  money  left,  and  the  parish  '11  have  to 
bury  me.  I  wonder  if  it  makes  any  dif- 
f'rence?" 

There  was  genuine  anxiety  in  the  boy's 
tone,  and  his  big  blue  eyes  rested  on  the 
girl  with  almost  a  pleading  look.  The 
latter  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  She 
felt,  dumbly  but  strongly,  that  it  must 
make  a  very  great  difference  indeed,  and 
that  a  person  leaving  this  world  rightful 


i8o  Harper's  Novelettes 

proprietor  of  his  own  grave,  so  to  speak, 
could  not  fail  to  be  more  thought  of  any 
where  else  than  the  recipient  of  charity. 
But  she  lacked  words  to  express  her 
self  in,  and  her  mind  was  full  of  another 
idea. 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  know  your  mother 
again,"  she  said.  "  She'll  be  an  angel 
now,  won't  she?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head  decisively.  "  I 
guess  they  didn't  make  an  angel  of  mo 
ther.  Her  hands  was  all  thin  and  hard, 
and  her  face  too,  and  she  hadn't  any 
good  clothes.  It's  the  fine  folks  they 
make  the  angels  out  of,  I  guess;  the  peo 
ple  with  tumstones  and  fam'ly  vaults. 
Did  you  ever  see  the  vaults  ?" 

"No." 

"  It's  queer."  The  thin  eager  look  on 
the  boy's  face  seemed  to  intensify,  and  he 
drew  up  his  emaciated  knees,  hugging 
them  with  his  arms.  "You  go  along  a 
road,  and  you  come  to  a  door  in  the  side 
of  the  hill,  and  often  it's  open  so's  you 
can  peep  in,  and  there's  a  coffin  up  on  a 
shelf,  sometimes  two,  and  there's  doors 
all  along  the  hill.  It's  queer.  It's  like 
walkin'  along  a  street  where  the  people's 
all  dead." 

The  girl  stood  looking  at  him  silently. 
He  was  very  strange,  this  boy.  Perhaps 


"Dad's  Grave "  181 

it  was  because  he  was  going  to  die  so 
soon. 

Just  then  one  of  the  children  who  had 
strayed  away  came  back,  and  pulling  at 
her  sister's  dress,  said,  "  Ain't  you  comiii' 
to  find  dad,  Susy?" 

"  I  can't,  Polly  dear.  Dad's  got  lost." 
And  again  the  steady  gray  eyes  filled  up, 
while  the  lip  quivered. 

The  boy  looked  on  sympathetically. 
"  I  tell  you  what  you'd  better  do,"  he  said 
at  last ;  "  you'd  better  'dopt  a  grave." 

"  What  ?"  asked  Susy,  astonished,  and 
doubtful  if  she  could  have  heard  aright. 

"'Dopt  one,  like  people 'does  children 
out  of  Homes.  Choose  one  that  ain't 
got  a  number,  call  it  your  dad's  and  take 
care  of  it  fur  him." 

"But  s'posin'  it  ain't  him?"  said  the 
girl,  dubiously. 

Adoption  to  her  mind  meant  the  taking 
care  of  very  little  children,  and  the 
thought  of  appropriating  a  long  grave, 
with  probably  a  full-grown  man  or  wo 
man  inside,  rather  startled  her.  Besides, 
there  was  something  not  altogether  re 
spectable  in  being  adopted.  It  was  as 
much  as  saying  that  a  person  or  grave 
had  no  natural  belongings.  The  buried 
somebody  mightn't  like  it  if  he  knew. 

"Perhaps   whoever   it   is   '11   tell   your 


182  Harper's  Novelettes 

dad  you  meant  it  fur  him.    Perhaps  he 
knows  ev'rything  now." 

There  was  an  odd  jumble  of  specula- 
tiveness  and  other-world  reasoning  in  the 
boy.  Constantly  in  the  cemetery,  influ 
enced  daily  by  the  sombreness  of  its  hap 
penings,  quaint,  curious  fancies  had 
grown  up  in  him  about  the  never-ebbing, 
continually  increasing  population  around 
him.  His  child  inquisitiveness,  instead 
of  being  lavished  on  outward  things,  had 
busied  itself  with  the  waking  up  of  all 
these  silent  people  in  a  world  created  for 
them  by  his  imagination  on  the  founda 
tion  of  a  vague  belief.  To  many  of  the 
nameless  ones  he  had  given  titles,  fash 
ioning  histories  for  them  too,  both  past 
and  future.  There  were  enclosures  full 
of  graves  over  which  he  brooded  with  a 
sort  of  quiet  content,  as  if  assisting  at  a 
peaceful  family  reunion,  while  a  solitary 
mound  shut  in  by  a  railing  troubled  him 
until  another  came  to  bear  it  company. 
But  it  was  always  the  occupants  of  the 
handsomest  lots,  those  over  whom  rose 
the  stateliest  headstones,  who  filled  the 
proudest  positions  in  that  other  world  of 
his  imagination.  The  poor  had  their 
place  too — a  place  corresponding  in  a 
measure  to  their  rank  in  the  cemetery — 
but  his  feeling  of  fitness  would  have  been 


"  Dad's  Grave  "  183 

shocked  by  the  very  suggestion  that  there 
could  be  waiting  for  them  a  like  consid 
eration  with  the  rich,  whom  living  he 
passed  sometimes  on  the  paths  of  the 
cemetery,  never  without  a  shrinking  con 
sciousness  of  his  own  raggedness  and 
general  inferiority,  and  who,  when  dead, 
came  in  slow-moving  hearses  and  silver- 
plated  coffins,  and  were  buried  with  flow 
ers  and  much  ceremonial,  and  above 
whom  glittered  in  gilt  lettering  their 
names  and  dates  of  birth  and  death,  and 
generally  a  text  out  of  the  Bible  besides, 
which,  to  his  mind,  was  a  sort  of  armorial 
distinction  of  the  wealthy,  a  prerogative 
which  it  would  have  been  presumption  in 
a  poor  grave  to  boast. 

"  Here's  one  without  any  number,"  he 
said;  "long  too,  a  six-footer,  I  guess." 

Susy  went  over  to  him.  The  grave 
they  were  looking  at  lay  apart  from  the 
others,  not  far  from  the  high  board  fence 
that  separated  this  portion  of  the  ceme 
tery  from  the  narrow  poor  streets  run 
ning  up  to  it.  The  grass,  less  carefully 
cut  just  here,  screened  it  so  effectually 
that  at  a  distance  the  mound  was  invisi 
ble.  The  children  could  hardly  have 
chosen  a  better  subject  for  adoption.  In 
its  solitariness  and  isolation  it  might  very 
well  have  been  the  last  resting-place  of  a 


1 84  Harper's  Novelettes 

life  that,  conscious  of  failure,  had  crept 
away  from  human  companionship,  with 
a  mute  acceptance  of  indifference  and 
neglect. 

"  I  tell  you  what " — the  boy's  eyes  were 
wandering  over  the  grass  around,  as  if 
searching  for  something — "  I'll  see  if  I 
can't  pick  up  a  bit  of  wood  like  there  is 
at  the  head  of  those  other  graves,  and 
drive  it  in  here,  and  you  can  mark  your 
number  on  it.  How  soon  can  you  come 
again?" 

"  Not  afore  next  Sunday.  I'm  in  a 
place,  and  I  get  out  Sundays  and  take 
the  children  fur  a  walk." 

"I  come  a'most  ev'ry  day,"  said  the 
boy,  with  a  sense  of  superior  advantages. 
"  Nobody  bothers  you  here,  and  the  f un'- 
rals  is  wonderful  sometimes.  There  was 
a  beauty  yesterday  —  twenty  carriages, 
and  two  lodges  walkin'  besides,  with 
aperns  in  front,  and  the  coffin  just  heaped 
up  with  flowers."  Then,  regretfully, 
"  Ain't,  it  a  pity  people  couldn't  take  just 
a  peep  out  of  the  end  of  the  hearse,  and 
see  all  that's  f ollerin'  after  them  ?  Don't 
you  think  they'd  like  it  ?" 

Susy  shook  her  head.  "Not  if  they 
knowed  they  was  goin'  to  be  buried.  I 
wouldn't." 

"  I  would.     Perhaps  they  didn't  know 


"Dad's  Grave "  185 

all  their  lives  how  much  people  thought 
of  them.  It's  queer,  dyin',  ain't  it?"  he 
continued,  gazing  meditatively  at  the 
more  frequented  part  of  the  cemetery, 
where  the  moving  figures  of  the  people, 
the  swift  alternations  of  sunshine  and 
shadow  under  the  passage  of  clouds,  and 
the  foliage  full  of  the  light  motion  of  the 
summer  wind  threw  into  strange  solemn 
contrast  the  immobility  of  the  dead  be 
neath,  who,  encased  in  the  rigid  narrow 
ness  of  these  innumerable  mounds,  seem 
ed  to  be  waiting  with  dumb  infinite  pa 
tience  the  revelation  of  the  meaning  of 
death.  "Don't  it  make  you  feel  funny 
sometimes,  thinkin'  about  it?" 

Susy  felt  embarrassed  and  uncomfort 
able.  In  her  little  experience,  chiefly 
confined  to  taking  care  of  dad  and  the 
children,  she  had  never  come  across  such 
speculations.  They  wakened  in  her  the 
sudden  shyness  that  seizes  most  children 
when  any  unusual  demand  is  made  on 
their  apprehension  or  sympathies.  What 
did  this  boy,  otherwise  so  nice  and  kind, 
say  such  things  for?  She  felt  vaguely 
that  this  propensity  of  his  was  connected 
in  some  way  with  the  oddness  of  his  ap 
pearance,  and  that  if  he  hadn't  such  very 
thin  legs  and  large  eyes  he  would  proba 
bly  be  much  more  sensible,  She  gave  a 


1 86  Harper's  Novelettes 

short  little  uneasy  laugh,  and  then  sud 
denly  remembering  the  children,  turned, 
with  a  sense  of  escape,  to  look  for  them. 
They  were  playing  a  little  distance  off  in 
a  heap  of  sand  thrown  up  close  to  the 
fence  by  the  side  of  a  partially  dug  grave, 
and  screened  from  view  by  an  enormous 
syringa-bush. 

"  What  ever  are  you  doin',  children  ?" 
said  Susy  as  she  drew  near. 

Tommy  lifted  his  round  face,  flushed 
with  heat  and  exertion.  "We're  playin' 
fun'ral,  Susy.  Polly's  dead,  and  I'm  dig- 
gin'  a  grave  to  bury  her  in." 

Polly,  who  was  lying  decorously 
stretched  out,  with  her  feet  close  together 
and  her  hands  folded  demurely  across  her 
breast,  but  whose  dark  eyes,  in  spite  of 
Tommy's  admonitions,  would  open  occa 
sionally  for  a  surreptitious  peep  at  out 
side  matters,  turned  her  fat  little  neck 
toward  her  sister  with  an  expression  of 
pleased  importance. 

"Get  up  directly,  Polly,"  said  Susy, 
shocked  at  such  irreverent  make-believe, 
and  uncomfortably  conscious  that  the 
wrong-doing  of  the  children  was  partly 
attributable  to  her  own  unusual  neglect 
of  them ;  "  and  if  you  don't  leave  the  sand 
alone,  Tommy,  the  man  '11  come  and  put 
out,  and  never  let  you  in  here  no 


"Dad's  Grave"  187 

more.  Come  over,  like  good  children, 
and  see  what  we're  doin'  to  dad's  grave." 

Tommy  threw  down  his  impromptu 
spade,  while  Polly  rose  with  a  sense  of 
crushed  dignity  and  mortified  feeling  of 
public  disapproval,  and  the  two  trailed 
unwillingly  after  their  sister  as  she  went 
back  to  the  adopted  grave.  Meanwhile 
the  boy  had  been  active.  Somewhere 
about  in  the  grass  he  had  discovered  a 
piece  of  board  of  convenient  size  and 
shape,  and  clearing  a  space  with  his 
hands,  he  was  thrusting  it  into  the 
ground  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  but  in  a 
feeble,  uncertain  way.  He  eyed  it  sus 
piciously  a  second  or  two,  as  if  expecting 
to  see  it  flatten  out  suddenly  on  the  grass. 

"I  guess  it's  all  right  fur  to-day,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  I'll  fix  it  steady  as  a  rock 
afore  next  Sunday.  Would  you  like  me 
to  mark  the  number  fur  you?  I've  got 
chalk." 

Susy  handed  him  the  paper  without 
speaking,  and  from  a  ragged  side  pocket, 
which  seemed  to  have  far  reaches  into 
the  lining,  and  to  be  exceedingly  difficult 
of  exploration,  he  produced  an  attenu 
ated  piece  of  chalk.  He  read  the  number 
first,  3040,  and  then  began  tracing  it  la 
boriously  on  the  wood,  regarded  almost 
reverently  by  Tommy  and  Polly  as  a  per- 


i88  Harper's  Novelettes 

son  who,  though  a  little  ragged,  had  been 
clever  enough  to  discover  dad's  grave 
amongst  so  many  others  of  exactly  the 
same  kind. 

"  Figgers  is  jiggy  things  to  make  when 
you  ain't  got  a  smooth  board,"  he  re 
marked  when,  with  painfully  crooked  fin 
gers  and  slightly  opened  mouth,  he  had 
rounded  the  intricacies  of  the  final  0; 
"  but  I  guess  you  can  read  it  plain 
enough." 

He  got  up  from  his  knees  and  retreat 
ed  backward,  step  by  step,  as  if  trying  to 
discover  at  what  range  the  chalk  marks 
became  invisible.  Susy,  a  sort  of  mother 
ly  content  shining  in  her  face,  sat  down 
beside  the  grave  and  rested  her  hand  on 
it  gently,  as  if  in  a  new  experience  and 
amongst  strange  surroundings  she  felt 
herself  still  "takin*  care  of  dad,"  while 
Tommy  rolled  over  on  the  sod  at  her  feet, 
and  lay  blinking  up  with  a  kind  of  little 
animal  enjoyment  of  the  big  warm  sun 
shine,  and  Polly,  stretched  half  over  tho 
mound,  began  picking  out  the  longest 
blades  of  grass  and  making  them  into  a 
posy. 


A  Transplanted  Boy 

BY     CONSTANCE    FENIMORE     WOOLSON 


THE  old  Eondinelli  Palace  at  Pisa 
has  been  for  many  years  a  board 
ing-house,  or  pension,  called  Casa 
Corti.  The  establishment  is  a  large  one, 
and  Madame  Corti,  the  proprietress,  be 
lieves  that  it  has  much  distinction. 

One  evening  in  the  spring  of  1880  a 
pretty  little  American,  who  looked  not 
more  than  twenty-five  years  old,  but  who 
was  thirty-three,  left  the  drawing-room 
where  the  seventy  boarders  were  assem 
bled  after  dinner,  and  mounted  to  her 
own  quarters.  She  did  not  care  for 
tea,  or  whist,  or  books  on  art,  or  wool 
work;  and,  besides,  her  little  boy  Maso 
was  waiting  for  her. 

"  Oh,  how  early  you've  come  up !  I'm 
awful  glad,"  said  Maso,  as  she  entered 
her  bedroom  on  the  third  floor.  It  was  a 
large  room,  shabbily  furnished  in  yellow, 


190  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  frescoed  walls  representing  the  Bay 
of  Naples.  Maso  was  lying  on  the  rug, 
with  his  dog  by  his  side. 

"  Why  are  you  in  the  dark  ?"  said  his 
mother.  There  was  a  smouldering  fire 
on  the  hearth;  for  though  the  day  had 
been  fine  (it  was  the  15th  of  March),  the 
old  palace  had  a  way  of  developing  unex 
pected  shivers  in  the  evening.  In  spite 
of  these  shivers,  however,  this  was  the 
only  room  where  there  was  a  fire.  Mrs. 
Roscoe  lighted  the  lamp  and  put  on  the 
pink  shade;  then  she  drew  the  small 
Italian  sticks  together  on  the  hearth, 
threw  on  a  dozen  pine  cones,  and  with  the 
bellows  blew  the  whole  into  a  brilliant 
blaze.  Next  she  put  a  key  into  the  Bay 
of  Naples,  unlocked  a  wave,  and  drew  out 
a  small  Vienna  coffee-pot. 

"  Are  we  going  to  have  coffee  ?  Jolly !" 
said  the  boy. 

His  mother  made  the  coffee;  then  she 
took  from  the  same  concealed  cupboard, 
which  had  been  drilled  in  the  solid  stone 
of  the  wall,  a  little  glass  jug  shaped  like 
a  lachrymal  from  the  catacombs,  which 
contained  cream;  sugar  in  a  bowl;  cakes, 
and  a  box  of  marrons  glaces.  Maso  gave 
a  Hi !  of  delight  as  each  dainty  appeared, 
and  made  his  dog  sit  on  his  hind  legs. 
"  I  say,  mother,  what  were  they  all  laugh- 


A  Transplanted  Boy  191 

ing  about  at  dinner?  Something  you 
said?" 

"  They  always  laugh ;  they  appear  never 
to  have  heard  a  joke  before.  That  about 
the  bishops,  now,  that  is  as  old  as  the 
hills."  Leaning  back  in  her  easy-chair 
before  the  fire,  with  Maso  established  at 
her  feet,  enjoying  his  cake  and  coffee,  she 
gave  a  long  yawn.  "Oh,  what  a  stupid 
life!" 

Maso  was  well  accustomed  to  this  ex 
clamation.  But  when  he  had  his  mother 
to  himself,  and  when  the  room  was  so 
bright  and  so  full  of  fragrant  aromas,  he 
saw  no  reason  to  echo  it.  "  Well,  7  think 
it's  just  gay !"  he  answered.  "  Mr.  Tiber, 
beg!"  Mr.  Tiber  begged,  and  received  a 
morsel  of  cake. 

Mrs.  Roscoe,  after  drinking  her  coffee, 
had  taken  up  a  new  novel.  "Perhaps 
you  had  better  study  a  little,"  she  sug- 


Maso  made  a  grimace.  But  as  the 
coffee  was  gone  and  the  cakes  were  eaten, 
he  complied;  that  is,  he  complied  after 
he  had  made  Mr.  Tiber  go  through  his 
tricks.  This  took  time;  for  Mr.  Tiber, 
having  swallowed  a  good  deal  of  cake 
himself,  was  lazy.  At  last,  after  he  had 
been  persuaded  to  show  to  the  world  the 
excellent  education  he  had  received,  his 

13 


192  Harpers  Novelettes 

master  decided  to  go  on  with  his  own, 
and  went  to  get  his  books,  which  were  on 
the  shelf  at  the  other  end  of  the  long 
room.  It  pleased  him  to  make  this  little 
journey  on  his  heels,  with  his  toes  sharp 
ly  upturned  in  the  air — a  feat  which  re 
quired  much  balancing. 

"  That  is  the  way  you  run  down  the 
heels  of  your  shoes  so,"  his  mother  re 
marked,  glancing  at  his  contortions. 

"  It  doesn't  hurt  them  much  on  the 
carpet"  replied  the  boy. 

"  Mercy !  You  don't  go  staggering 
through  the  streets  in  that  way,  do  you  ?" 

"  Only  back  streets." 

He  was  now  returning  in  the  same  ob 
structed  manner,  carrying  his  books.  He 
placed  them  upon  the  table  where  the 
lamp  was  standing;  then  he  lifted  Mr. 
Tiber  to  the  top  of  the  same  table  and 
made  him  lie  down;  next,  seating  him 
self,  he  opened  a  battered  school-book,  a 
United  States  History,  and,  after  looking 
at  the  pictures  for  a  while,  he  began  at 
last  to  repeat  two  dates  to  himself  in  a 
singsong  whisper.  Maso  was  passing 
through  the  period  when  a  boy  can  be 
very  plain,  even  hideous,  in  appearance, 
without  any  perception  of  the  fact  in  the 
minds  of  his  relatives,  who  see  in  him  the 
little  toddler  still,  or  else  the  future 


A  Transplanted  Boy  193 

man;  other  persons,  however,  are  apt  to 
see  a  creature  all  hands  and  feet,  with  a 
big,  uncertain  mouth,  and  an  omnipres 
ent  awkwardness.  Maso,  in  addition  to 
this,  was  short  and  ill  developed,  with  in 
expressive  eyes  and  many  large  freckles. 
His  features  were  not  well  cut;  his  com 
plexion  was  pale ;  his  straight  hair  was  of 
a  reddish  hue.  None  of  the  mother's 
beauties  were  repeated  in  the  child.  Such 
as  he  was,  however,  she  loved  him,  and 
he  repaid  her  love  by  a  deep  adoration; 
to  him,  besides  being  "mother,"  she  was 
the  most  beautiful  being  in  the  whole 
world,  and  also  the  cleverest. 

While  he  was  vaguely  murmuring  his 
dates,  and  rocking  himself  backwards  and 
forwards  in  time  with  the  murmur,  there 
came  a  tap  at  the  door.  It  was  Miss 
Spring.  "  I  have  looked  in  to  bid  you 
good-by,"  she  said,  entering.  "I  am  go 
ing  to  Munich  to-morrow." 

"Isn't  that  sudden?"  said  Mrs.  Ros- 
coe.  "  The  torn  chair  is  the  most  com 
fortable.  Have  a  marron?" 

"  Thank  you ;  I  seldom  eat  sweets.  No, 
it  is  not  sudden." 

"  Shall  I  make  you  a  cup  of  coffee  f ' 
"  Thank  you ;  I  don't  take  coffee." 
Mrs.  Roscoe  pushed  a  footstool  across 
the  rug. 


1 94  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Thank  you ;  I  never  need  footstools." 

"  Superior  to  all  the  delights  of 
womankind !" 

Miss  Spring  came  out  of  her  abstrac 
tion  and  laughed.  "  Not  superior;  only 
bilious,  and  long-legged."  Then  her  face 
grew  grave  again.  "Do  you  consider 
Pisa  an  attractive  place  for  a  permanent 
residence?"  she  inquired,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  her  hostess,  who,  having  offered  all 
the  hospitable  attentions  in  her  power, 
was  now  leaning  back  again,  her  feet  on 
a  hassock. 

"Attractive?    Heavens!  no." 

"Yet  you  stay  here?  I  think  I  have 
'seen  you  here,  at  intervals,  for  something 
like  seven  years?" 

"  Don't  count  them ;  I  hate  the  sound," 
said  Mrs.  Koscoe.  "  My  wish  is — my  hope 
is — to  live  in  Paris;  I  get  there  once  in 
a  while,  and  then  I  always  have  to  give 
it  up  and  come  away.  Italy  is  cheap,  and 
Pisa  is  the  cheapest  place  in  Italy." 

"  So  that  is  your  reason  for  remain 
ing,"  said  Miss  Spring,  reflectively. 

"  What  other  reason  on  earth  could 
there  be?" 

"  The  equable  climate." 

"I  hate  equable  climates.  No,  we're 
not  here  for  climates.  Not  for  Benozzo; 
nor  for  Niccola  the  Pisan,  and  that  ever- 


A  Transplanted  Boy  195 

lasting  old  sarcophagus  that  they  are  al 
ways  talking  about;  nor  for  the  Leaning 
Tower  either.  I  perfectly  hate  the  Lean 
ing  Tower!" 

Miss  Spring  gazed  at  the  fire.  "  I  may 
as  well  acknowledge  that  it  was  those 
very  things  that  brought  me  here  in  the 
beginning,  the  things  you  don't  care  for : 
Niccola  and  the  revival  of  sculpture;  the 
early  masters.  But  I  have  not  found 
them  satisfying.  I  have  tried  to  care  for 
that  sarcophagus;  but  the  truth  is  that  I 
remain  perfectly  cold  before  it.  And  the 
Campo  Santo  frescoes  seem  to  me  out  of 
drawing.  As  to  the  Shelley  memories, 
do  you  know  what  I  thought  of  the  other 
day?  Supposing  that  Shelley  and  Byron 
were  residing  here  at  this  moment — 
Shelley  with  that  queerness  about  his 
first  wife  hanging  over  him,  and  Byron 
living  as  we  know  he  lived  in  the  Tos- 
canelli  palace — do  you  think  that  these 
ladies  in  the  pension  who  now  sketch  the 
Toscanelli  and  sketch  Shelley's  windows, 
who  go  to  Lerici  and  rave  over  Casa 
Magni,  who  make  pilgrimages  to  the  very 
spot  on  the  beach  where  Byron  and  Tre- 
lawney  built  the  funeral  pyre — do  you 
think  that  a  single  one  of  them  would 
call,  if  it  were  to-day,  upon  Mary  Shel 
ley?  Or  like  to  have  Shelley  and  Byron 


196  Harper's  Novelettes 

dropping  in  here  for  afternoon  tea,  with 
the  chance  of  meeting  the  curates?" 

"  If  they  met  them,  they  couldn't  out- 
talk  them,"  answered  Violet,  laughing. 
"  Curates  always  want  to  explain  some 
thing  they  said  the  day  before.  As  to 
the  calling  and  the  tea,  what  would 
you  do?" 

"  I  should  be  consistent,"  responded 
Miss  Spring,  with  dignity.  "  I  should 
call.  And  I  should  be  happy  to  see  them 
here  in  return." 

"Well,  you'd  be  safe,"  said  Violet. 
"  Shelley,  Byron,  Trelawney,  all  together, 
would  never  dare  to  flirt  with  Roberta 
Spring!"  She  could  say  this  without 
malice,  for  her  visitor  was  undeniably  a 
handsome  woman. 

Miss  Spring,  meanwhile,  had  risen; 
going  to  the  table,  she  put  on  her  glasses 
and  bent  over  Maso's  book.  "  History  f ' 

"  Yes,  'm.  I  haven't  got  very  far  yet," 
Maso  answered. 

"  Reader.  Copy  -  book.  Geography. 
Spelling-book.  Arithmetic,"  said  Miss 
Spring,  turning  the  books  over  one  by 
one.  "The  Arithmetic  appears  to  be 
the  cleanest." 

"Disuse,"  said  Mrs.  Roscoe,  from  her 
easy-chair.  "  As  I  am  Maso's  teacher, 
and  as  I  hate  arithmetic,  we  have  never 


A  Transplanted  Boy  197 

gone  very  far.  I  don't  know  what  we 
shall  do  when  we  get  to  fractions !" 

"And  what  is  your  dog  doing  on  the 
table,  may  I  ask?"  inquired  the  visitor, 
surveying  Mr.  Tiber  coldly. 

"  Oh,  he  helps  lots.  I  couldn't  study 
at  all  without  him,"  explained  Maso,  with 
eagerness. 

"  Well !"  said  Miss  Spring.  She  never 
could  comprehend  what  she  called  "  all 
this  dog  business"  of  the  Roscoes.  And 
their  dog  language  (they  had  one)  routed 
her  completely. 

"  Why  did  you  name  him  Mr.  Tiber  ?" 
pursued  the  visitor,  in  her  grave  voice. 

"We  didn't;  he  was  already  named," 
explained  Mrs.  Roscoe.  "We  bought  him 
of  an  old  lady  in  Rome,  who  had  three ; 
she  had  named  them  after  Italian  rivers : 
Mr.  Arno,  Mr.  Tiber,  and  Miss  Dora 
Ripaira." 

"Miss  Dora  Ripaira — well!"  said  Miss 
Spring.  Then  she  turned  to  subjects 
more  within  her  comprehension.  "It  is 
a  pity  I  am  going  away,  Maso,  for  I 
could  have  taught  you  arithmetic;  I  like 
to  teach  arithmetic." 

Maso  made  no  answer  save  an  imbecile 
grin.  His  mother  gesticulated  at  him 
behind  Miss  Spring's  back.  Then  he 
muttered,  "  Thank  you,  'm,"  hoping  fer- 


198  Harper's  Novelettes 

vently  that  the  Munich  plan  was  se 
cure. 

"I  shall  get  a  tutor  for  Maso  before 
long,"  remarked  Mrs.  Roscoe,  as  Miss 
Spring  came  back  to  the  fire.  "Later, 
my  idea  is  to  have  him  go  to  Oxford." 

Miss  Spring  looked  as  though  she  were 
uttering,  mentally,  another  "  well !"  The 
lack  of  agreement  in  the  various  state 
ments  of  her  pretty  little  countrywoman 
always  puzzled  her;  she  could  understand 
crime  better  than  inconsistency. 

"  Shall  you  stay  long  in  Munich  ?" 
Violet  inquired. 

"  That  depends."  Miss  Spring  had  not 
seated  herself.  "  Would  you  mind  com 
ing  to  my  room  for  a  few  minutes?"  she 
added. 

"  There's  no  fire ;  I  shall  freeze  to 
death!"  thought  Violet.  "If  you  like," 
she  answered  aloud.  And  together  they 
ascended  to  the  upper  story,  where,  at  the 
top  of  two  unexpected  steps,  was  Miss 
Spring's  door.  A  trunk,  locked  and 
strapped,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  floor; 
an  open  travelling-bag,  placed  on  a  chair, 
gaped  for  the  toilet  articles,  which  were 
ranged  on  the  table  together,  so  that 
nothing  should  be  forgotten  at  the  early 
morning  start — a  cheap  hair-brush  and 
stout  comb,  an  unadorned  wooden  box 


A  Transplanted  Boy          199 

containing  hair-pins  and  a  scissors,  a 
particularly  hideous  travelling  pin-cush 
ion.  Violet  Eoscoe  gazed  at  these  arti 
cles,  fascinated  by  their  ugliness;  she 
herself  possessed  a  long  row  of  vials  and 
brushes,  boxes  and  mirrors,  of  silver, 
crystal,  and  ivory,  and  believed  that  she 
could  not  live  without  them. 

"I  thought  I  would  not  go  into  the 
subject  before  Maso,"  began  Miss 
Spring,  as  she  closed  the  door.  "  Such 
explanations  sometimes  unsettle  a  boy; 
his  may  not  be  a  mind  to  which  inquiry 
is  necessary.  My  visit  to  Munich  has  an 
object.  I  am  going  to  study  music." 

"Music?"  repeated  Mrs.  Eoscoe,  sur 
prised.  "I  didn't  know  you  cared 
for  it." 

"But  it  remains  to  be  seen  whether  I 
care,  doesn't  it?  One  cannot  tell  until 
one  has  tried.  This  is  the  case:  I  am 
now  thirty-seven  years  of  age.  I  have 
given  a  good  deal  of  attention  to  as 
tronomy  and  to  mathematics;  I  am  an 
evolutionist,  a  realist,  a  member  of  the 
Society  for  Psychical  Research;  Herbert 
Spencer's  works  always  travel  with  me. 
These  studies  have  been  extremely  in 
teresting.  And  yet  I  find  that  I  am  not 
fully  satisfied,  Mrs.  Roscoe.  And  it  has 
been  a  disappointment.  I  determined, 


200  Harper's  Novelettes 

therefore,  to  try  some  of  those  intellec 
tual  influences  which  do  not  appeal  sole 
ly  to  reason.  They  appear  to  give  pleas 
ure  to  large  numbers  of  mankind,  so 
there  must  be  something  in  them.  What 
that  is  I  resolved  to  find  out.  I  began 
with  sculpture.  Then  painting.  But 
they  have  given  me  no  pleasure  what 
ever.  Music  is  third  on  the  list.  So  now 
I  am  going  to  try  that." 

Mrs.  Roscoe  gave  a  spring  and  seated 
herself  on  the  bed,  with  her  feet  under 
her,  Turkish  fashion;  the  floor  was  real 
ly  too  cold.  "  No  use  trying  music  un 
less  you"  like  it,"  she  said. 

"  I  have  never  disliked  it.  My  atti 
tude  will  be  that  of  an  impartial  investi 
gator,"  explained  Miss  Spring.  "  I  have, 
of  course,  no  expectation  of  becoming  a 
performer;  but  I  shall  study  the  theory 
of  harmony,  the  science  of  musical  com 
position,  its  structure — 

"Structure?  Stuff!  You've  got  to 
feel  it,"  said  Violet. 

"Very  well.  I  am  perfectly  willing 
to  feel ;  that  is,  in  fact,  what  I  wish.  Let 
them  make  me  feel.  If  it  is  an  affair  of 
the  emotions,  let  them  rouse  my  emo 
tions,"  answered  Roberta. 

"  If  you  would  swallow  a  marron  oc 
casionally,  and  drink  a  cup  of  good 


A  Transplanted  Boy  201 

coffee  with  cream;  if  you  would  have 
some  ivory  brushes  and  crystal  scent- 
bottles,  instead  of  those  hideous  objects," 
said  Violet,  glancing  towards  the  table; 
"if  you  would  get  some  pretty  dresses 
once  in  a  while — I  think  satisfaction 
would  be  nearer." 

Miss  Spring  looked  up  quickly.  "  You 
think  I  have  been  too  ascetic?  Is  that 
what  you  mean?" 

"  Oh,  I  never  mean  anything,"  an 
swered  Violet,  hugging  herself  to  keep 
down  a  shiver. 

"I  knew  I  should  get  a  new  idea  out 
of  you,  Mrs.  Roscoe.  I  always  do,"  said 
Roberta,  frankly.  "  And  this  time  it  is 
an  important  one;  it  is  a  side  light 
which  I  had  not  thought  of  myself  at  all. 
I  shall  go  to  Munich  to-morrow.  But  I 
will  add  this:  if  music  is  not  a  success, 
perhaps  I  may  some  time  try  your  plan." 

"Plan?  Horrible!  I  haven't  any," 
said  Violet,  escaping  towards  the  door. 

"  It's  an  unconscious  one ;  it  is,  possi 
bly,  instinctive  truth,"  said  Miss  Spring, 
as  she  shook  hands  with  her  departing 
guest.  "  And  instinctive  truth  is  the 
most  valuable." 

Violet  ran  back  to  her  own  warm 
quarters.  "You  don't  mean  to  say, 
Maso,  that  you've  stopped  studying  al- 


202  Harper's  Novelettes 

ready?"  she  said,  as  she  entered  and 
seated  herself  before  her  fire  again,  with 
a  sigh  of  content.  "  Nice  lessons  you'll 
have  for  me  to-morrow." 

"They're  all  O.  K,"  responded  the 
boy.  He  had  his  paint-box  before  him, 
and  was  painting  the  Indians  in  his 
History. 

"  Well,  go  to  bed,  then." 

"Yes,  >m." 

At  half  past  ten,  happening  to  turn 
her  head  while  she  cut  open  the  pages 
of  her  novel,  she  saw  that  he  was  still  there. 
"  Maso,  do  you  hear  me  ?  Go  to  bed." 

"Yes,  'm."  He  painted  faster,  ma 
king  hideous  grimaces  with  his  protrud 
ed  lips,  which  unconsciously  followed 
the  strokes  of  his  brush  up  and  down. 
The  picture,  finished  at  last,  he  rose. 
"Mr.  Tiber,  pirn." 

At  eleven,  Mrs.  Roscoe  finished  her 
novel  and  threw  it  down.  "Women  who 
write  don't  know  much  about  love- 
affairs,"  was  her  reflection.  "And  those 
of  us  who  have  love-affairs  don't  write!" 
She  rose.  "Maso,  you  here  still?  I 
thought  you  went  to  bed  an  hour  ago!" 

"Well,  I  did  begin.  I  put  my  shoes 
outside."  He  extended  his  shoeless  feet 
in  proof.  "  Then  I  just  came  back  for  a 
minute." 


A  Transplanted  Boy          203 

His  mother  looked  over  his  shoulder. 
"That  same  old  fairy-book!  Who  would 
suppose  you  were  twelve  years  old?" 

"  Thirteen,"  said  Maso,  coloring. 

"  So  you  are.  But  only  two  weeks 
ago.  Never  mind;  you'll  be  a  tall  man 
yet — a  great  big  thing  striding  about, 
whom  I  shall  not  care  half  so  much  for 
as  I  do  for  my  little  boy."  She  kissed 
him.  "  All  your  father's  family  are  tall, 
and  you  look  just  like  them." 

Maso  nestled  closer  as  she  stood  beside 
him.  "How  did  father  look?  I  don't 
remember  him  much." 

"Much?  You  don't  remember  him  at 
all;  he  died  when  you  were  six  months 
old — a  little  teenty  baby." 

"I  say,  mother,  how  long  have  we 
been  over  here?" 

"I  came  abroad  when  you  were  not 
quite  two." 

"Aren't  we  ever  going  back?" 

"If  you  could  once  see  Coesville!" 
was  Mrs.  Roscoe's  emphatic  reply. 


n 


"Hist,  Maso!  Take  this  in  to  your 
lady  mother,"  said  Giulio.  "I  made  it 
myself,  so  it's  good."  Giulio,  one  of  the 


204  Harper's  Novelettes 

dining-room  waiters  at  Casa  Corti,  was 
devoted  to  the  Roscoes.  Though  he  was 
master  of  a  mysterious  French  polyglot, 
he  used  at  present  his  own  tongue,  for 
Maso  spoke  Italian  as  readily  as  he  did, 
and  in  much  the  same  fashion. 

Maso  took  the  cup,  and  Giulio  disap 
peared.  As  the  boy  was  carrying  the 
broth  carefully  towards  his  mother's 
door,  Madame  Corti  passed  him.  She 
paused. 

"  Ah,  Master  Roscoe,  I  am  relieved  to 
learn  that  your  mother  is  better.  Will 
you  tell  her,  with  my  compliments,  that 
I  advise  her  to  go  at  once  to  the  Bagni 
to  make  her  recovery?  She  ought  to  go 
to-morrow.  That  is  the  air  required  for 
convalescence." 

Maso  repeated  this  to  his  mother: 
" (  That  is  the  air  required  for  convales 
cence/  she  said." 

"  And  '  this  is  the  room  required  for 
spring  tourists,'  she  meant.  Did  she 
name  a  day — the  angel?" 

"  Well,  she  did  say  to-morrow,"  Maso 
admitted. 

"  Old  cat !  She  is  dying  to  turn  me 
out;  she  is  so  dreadfully  afraid  that  the 
word  fever  will  hurt  her  house.  All  the 
servants  are  sworn  to  call  it  rheuma 
tism." 


A  Transplanted  Boy  205 

"  See  here,  mother,  Giulio  sent  you 
this." 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  their  messes." 

"  But  he  made  it  himself,  so  it's  good." 
He  knelt  down  beside  her  sofa,  holding 
up  the  cup  coaxingly. 

"  Beef  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Roscoe,  drawing 
down  her  upper  lip.  But  she  took  a  lit 
tle  to  please  him. 

"Just  a  little  more." 

She  took  more. 

"A  little  teenty  more." 

"You  scamp!  You  think  it's  great 
fun  to  give  directions,  don't  you?" 

Maso,  who  had  put  the  emptied  cup 
back  on  the  table,  gave  a  leap  of  glee 
because  she  had  taken  so  much. 

"  Don't  walk  on  your  hands,"  said  his 
mother,  in  alarm.  "It  makes  me  too 
nervous." 

It  was  the  12th  of  April,  and  she  had 
been  ill  two  weeks.  An  attack  of  bron 
chitis  had  prostrated  her  suddenly,  and 
the  bronchitis  had  been  followed  by  an 
intermittent  fever,  which  left  her  weak. 

"  I  say,  mother,  let's  go,"  said  Maso. 
"It's  so  nice  at  the  Bagni — all  trees  and 
everything.  Miss  Anderson  '11  come  and 
pack." 

"  If  we  do  go  to  the  Bagni  we  cannot 
stay  at  the  hotel,"  said  Mrs.  Roscoe, 


206  Harper's  Novelettes 

gloomily.  "  This  year  we  shall  have  to 
find  some  cheaper  place.  I  have  been 
counting  upon  money  from  home  that 
hasn't  come." 

"But  it  will  come,"  said  Maso,  with 
confidence. 

"  Have  you  much  acquaintance  with 
Reuben  John?" 

He  had  no  very  clear  idea  as  to  the 
identity  of  Reuben  John,  save  that  he 
was  some  sort  of  a  dreadful  relative  in 
America. 

"Well,  the  Bagni's  nice,"  he  answer 
ed,  "no  matter  where  we  stay.  And  I 
know  Miss  Anderson  '11  come  and  pack." 

"  You  mustn't  say  a  word  to  her  about 
it.  I  have  got  to  write  a  note,  as  it  is, 
and  ask  her  to  wait  for  her  money  until 
winter.  Dr.  Prior,  too." 

"Well,  they'll  do  it;  they'll  do  it  in  a 
minute,  and  be  glad  to,"  said  Maso,  still 
confident. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why,"  com 
mented  his  mother,  turning  her  head 
upon  the  pillow  fretfully. 

"Why,  mother,  they'll  do  it  because 
it's  you.  They  think  everything  of  you; 
everybody  does,"  said  the  boy,  adoringly. 

Violet  Roscoe  laughed.  It  took  but 
little  to  cheer  her.  "  If  you  don't  brush 
your  hair  more  carefully  they  won't 


A  Transplanted  Boy          207 

think  much  of  your  she  answered,  set 
ting  his  collar  straight. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  "Let 
ters,"  said  Maso,  returning.  He  brought 
her  a  large  envelope,  adorned  with  Ital 
ian  superlatives  of  honor  and  closed  with 
a  red  seal.  "Always  so  civil,"  murmur 
ed  Mrs.  Roscoe,  examining  the  decorated 
address  with  a  pleased  smile.  Her  let 
ters  came  to  a  Pisan  bank;  the  bankers 
reenclosed  them  in  this  elaborate  way, 
and  sent  them  to  her  by  their  own  gilt- 
buttoned  messenger.  There  was  only  one 
letter  to-day.  She  opened  it,  read  the 
first  page,  turned  the  leaf,  and  then  in 
her  weakness  she  began  to  sob.  Maso  in 
great  distress  knelt  beside  her;  he  put 
his  arm  round  her  neck,  and  laid  his 
cheek  to  hers;  he  did  everything  he 
could  think  of  to  comfort  her.  Mr.  Tiber, 
who  had  been  lying  at  her  feet,  walked 
up  her  back  and  gave  an  affectionate 
lick  to  her  hair.  "Mercy!  the  dog  too," 
she  said,  drying  her  eyes.  "Of  course 
it  was  Reuben  John,"  she  explained, 
shaking  up  her  pillow. 

Maso  picked  up  the  fallen  letter. 

"Don't  read  it;  burn  it  —  horrid 
thing!"  his  mother  commanded. 

He  obeyed,  striking  a  match  and  light 
ing  the  edge  of  the  page. 
14 


208  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Not  only  no  money,  but  in  its  place 
a  long,  hateful,  busybodying  sermon," 
continued  Mrs.  Roscoe,  indignantly. 

Maso  came  back  from  the  hearth,  and 
took  up  the  envelope.  "  Mrs.  Thomas 
R.  Coe,"  he  read  aloud.  "Is  our  name 
really  Coe,  mother?" 

"  You  know  it  is  perfectly  well." 

"  Everybody  says  Roscoe." 

"I  didn't  get  it  up;  all  I  did  was  to 
call  myself  Mrs.  Ross  Coe,  which  is  my 
name,  isn't  it?  I  hate  Thomas.  Then 
these  English  got  hold  of  it  and  made  it 
Ross-Coe  and  Roscoe.  I  grew  tired  of 
correcting  them  long  ago." 

"  Then  in  America  I  should  be  Thom 
as  Ross  Coe,"  pursued  the  boy,  still  scan 
ning  the  envelope,  and  pronouncing  the 
syllables  slowly.  He  was  more  familiar 
with  Italian  names  than  with  American. 

"  No  such  luck.  Tommy  Coe  you'd  be 
now.  And  as  you  grew  older,  Tom  Coe 
— like  your  father  before  you." 

They  went  to  the  Bagni,  that  is,  to  the 
baths  of  Lucca.  The  journey,  short  as 
it  was,  tired  Mrs.  Roscoe  greatly.  They 
took  up  their  abode  in  two  small  rooms 
in  an  Italian  house  which  had  an  un- 
swept  stairway  and  a  constantly  open 
door.  Maso,  disturbed  by  her  illness,  but 
by  nothing  else — for  they  had  often  fol- 


A  Transplanted  Boy  209 

lowed  a  nomadic  life  for  a  while  when 
funds  were  low — scoured  the  town.  He 
bought  cakes  and  fruit  to  tempt  her 
appetite;  he  made  coffee.  He  had  no 
conception  that  these  things  were  not  the 
proper  food  for  a  convalescent;  his 
mother  had  always  lived  upon  coffee  and 
sweets. 

On  the  first  day  of  May,  when  they 
had  heen  following  this  course  for  two 
weeks,  they  had  a  visitor.  Dr.  Prior, 
who  had  been  called  to  the  Bagni  for  a 
day,  came  to  have  a  look  at  his  former 
patient.  He  staid  fifteen  minutes. 
When  he  took  leave  he  asked  Maso  to 
show  him  the  way  to  a  certain  house. 
This,  however,  was  but  a  pretext,  for 
when  they  reached  the  street  he  stopped. 

"  I  dare  say  ye  have  friends  here  ?" 

"Well,"  answered  Maso,  "mother  gen 
erally  knows  a  good  many  of  the  people 
in  the  hotel  when  we  are  staying  there. 
But  this  year  we  ain't." 

"  Hum !    Where  are  your  relatives  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  a$  we've  got  any.  Yes, 
there's  one,"  pursued  Maso,  remembering 
Eeuben  John.  "But  he's  in  America." 

The  Scotch  physician,  who  was  by  no 
means  an  amiable  man,  was  bluntly  hon 
est.  "How  old  are  you?"  he  inquired. 

"I'm  going  on  fourteen." 


2io  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Never  should  have  supposed  ye  to  be 
more  than  eleven.  As  there  appears  to 
be  no  one  else,  I  must  speak  to  you. 
Your  mother  must  not  stay  in  this  house 
a  day  longer;  she  must  have  a  better 
place — better  air  and  better  food." 

Maso's  heart  gave  a  great  throb.  "Is 
she — is  she  very  ill?" 

"Not  yet.  But  she  is  in  a  bad  way; 
she  coughs.  She  ought  to  leave  Italy 
for  a  while;  stay  out  of  it  for  at  least 
four  months.  If  she  doesn't  care  to  go 
far,  Aix-les-Bains  would  do.  Speak  to 
her  about  it.  I  fancy  ye  can  arrange  it 
— hey?  American  boys  have  their  own 
way,  I  hear." 

Maso  went  back  to  his  mother's  room 
with  his  heart  in  his  mouth.  When  he 
came  in  she  was  asleep;  her  face  looked 
wan.  The  boy,  cold  all  over  with  the 
new  fear,  sat  down  quietly  by  the  win 
dow  with  Mr.  Tiber  on  his  lap,  and  fell 
into  anxious  thought.  After  a  while 
his  mother  woke.  The  greasy  dinner, 
packed  in  greasy  tins,  came  and  went. 
When  the  room  was  quiet  again  he  be 
gan,  tremulously :  "  How  much  money 
have  we  got,  mother?" 

"  Precious  little." 

"  Mayn't  I  see  how  much  it  is  ?" 

"No;  don't  bother." 


A  Transplanted  Boy          211 

She  had  eaten  nothing.  "Mother, 
won't  you  please  take  that  money,  even 
if  it's  little,  and  go  straight  off  north 
somewhere?  To  Aix-les-Bains." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?  Aix- 
les-Bains?  What  do  you  know  of  Aix- 
les-Bains?" 

"Well,  I've  heard  about  it.  Say, 
mother,  do  go.  And  Mr.  Tiber  and  me'll 
stay  here.  We'll  have  lots  of  fun,"  add 
ed  the  boy,  bravely. 

"Is  that  all  you  care  about  me?"  de 
manded  his  mother.  Then  seeing  his  face 
change,  "  Come  here,  you  silly  child,"  she 
said.  She  made  him  sit  down  on  the  rug 
beside  her  sofa.  "  We  must  sink  or  swim 
together,  Maso  (dear  me!  we're  not  much 
in  the  swim  now) ;  we  can't  go  anywhere, 
either  of  us;  we  can  only  just  manage 
to  live  as  we're  living  now.  And  there 
won't  be  any  more  money  until  Novem 
ber."  She  stroked  his  hair  caressingly. 
His  new  fear  made  him  notice  how  thin 
her  wrist  had  grown. 


m 

"You  will  mail  these  three  letters  im 
mediately,"  said  Mr.  Waterhouse,  in 
Italian,  to  the  hotel  porter. 


212  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Si,  signore,"  answered  the  man,  with 
the  national  sunny  smile,  although  Wa- 
terhouse's  final  gratuity  had  been  but  a 
franc. 

"  Now,  Tommaso,  I  must  be  off ;  long 
drive.  Sorry  it  has  happened  so.  Crazy 
idea  her  coming  at  all,  as  she  has  en 
joyed  bad  health  for  years,  poor  old 
thing !  She  may  be  dead  at  this  moment, 
and  probably,  in  fact,  she  is  dead;  but  I 
shall  have  to  go,  all  the  same,  in  spite 
of  the  great  expense;  she  ought  to  have 
thought  of  that.  I  have  explained  every 
thing  to  your  mother  in  that  letter;  the 
money  is  at  her  own  bank  in  Pisa,  and  I 
have  sent  her  the  receipt.  You  have  fifty 
francs  with  you?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Fifty  francs  —  that  is  ten  dollars. 
More  than  enough,  much  more;  be  care 
ful  of  it,  Tommaso.  You 'will  hear  from 
your  mother  in  two  days,  or  sooner,  if 
she  telegraphs;  in  the  mean  while  you 
will  stay  quietly  where  you  are." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Mr.  Waterhouse  shook  hands  with  his 
pupil,  and  stepping  into  the  waiting  car 
riage,  was  driven  away. 

Benjamin  F.  Waterhouse,  as  he  signed 
himself  (of  course  the  full  name  was 
Benjamin  Franklin),  was  an  American 


A  Transplanted  Boy  213 

•who  had  lived  in  Europe  for  nearly  half 
a  century,  always  expecting  to  go  home 
"  next  summer."  He  was  very  tall,  with 
a  face  that  resembled  a  damaged  portrait 
of  Emerson,  and  he  had  been  engaged 
for  many  years  in  writing  a  great  work, 
a  Life  of  Christopher  Columbus,  which 
was  to  supersede  all  other  Lives.  As  his 
purse  was  a  light  one,  he  occasionally 
took  pupils,  and  it  was  in  this  way  that 
he  had  taken  Maso,  or,  as  he  called  him 
(giving  him  all  the  syllables  of  the  Ital 
ian  Thomas),  Tommaso.  Only  three 
weeks,  however,  of  his  tutorship  had 
passed  when  he  had  received  a  letter  an 
nouncing  that  his  sister,  his  only  re 
maining  relative,  despairing  of  his  re 
turn,  was  coming  abroad  to  see  him,  in 
spite  of  her  age  and  infirmities;  she  was 
the  "  poor  old  thing "  of  her  dry 
brother's  description,  and  the  voyage  ap 
parently  had  been  too  great  an  exertion, 
for  she  was  lying  dangerously  ill  at 
Liverpool,  and  the  physician  in  attend 
ance  had  telegraphed  to  Waterhouse  to 
come  immediately. 

The  history  of  the  tutorship  was  as 
follows:  Money  had  come  from  America 
after  all.  Mrs.  Roscoe  (as  everybody 
called  her)  had  been  trying  for  some 
time,  so  she  told  Maso,  "  to  circumvent 


214  Harper's  Novelettes 

Reuben  John,"  and  sell  a  piece  of  land 
which  she  owned  in  Indiana.  Now,  un 
expectedly,  a  purchaser  had  turned  up. 
While  she  was  relating  this  it  seemed  to 
her  that  her  little  boy  changed  into  a 
young  man  before  her  eyes.  "You've 
just  got  to  take  that  money,  mother,  and 
go  straight  up  to  Aix-les-Bains,"  said 
Maso,  planting  himself  before  her.  "  I 
sha'n't  go  a  single  step;  I  ain't  sick, 
and  you  are;  it's  cheaper  for  me  to 
stay  here.  There  isn't  money  enough 
to  take  us  both,  for  I  want  you  to 
stay  up  there  ever  so  long;  four  whole 
months." 

This  was  the  first  of  many  discussions, 
or  rather  of  astonished  exclamations 
from  the  mother,  met  by  a  stubborn  and 
at  last  a  silent  obstinacy  on  the  part  of 
the  boy.  For  of  late  he  had  scarcely 
slept,  he  had  been  so  anxious;  he  had 
discovered  that  the  people  in  the  house, 
with  the  usual  Italian  dread  of  a  cough, 
believed  that  "the  beautiful  little  Amer 
ican,"  as  they  called  his  mother,  was 
doomed.  Mother  and  son  had  never  been 
separated ;  the  mother  shed  tears  over  the 
idea  of  a  separation  now;  and  then  a 
few  more  because  Maso  did  not  "  care." 
"It  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  to  you" 
she  declared,  reproachfully, 


A  Transplanted  Boy          215 

But  Maso,  grim-faced  and  wretched, 
held  firm. 

In  this  deadlock  Mrs.  Eoscoe  at  last 
had  the  inspiration  of  asking  Benjamin 
Waterhouse,  who  was  spending  the  sum 
mer  at  the  Bagni,  and  whom  she  knew  to 
be  a  frugal  man,  to  take  charge  of  Maso 
during  her  absence.  Maso,  who  under 
other  circumstances  would  have  fought 
the  idea  of  a  tutor  with  all  his  strength, 
now  yielded  without  a  word.  And  then 
the  mother,  unwillingly  and  in  a  flood  of 
tears,  departed.  She  went  by  slow  stages 
to  Aix-les-Bains ;  even  her  first  letter, 
however,  much  more  the  later  ones,  ex 
haled  from  each  line  her  pleasure  in  the 
cooler  air  and  in  her  returning  health. 
She  sent  to  Maso,  after  a  while,  a  colored 
photograph  of  herself,  taken  on  the  shore 
of  Lake  Bourget,  and  the  picture  was  to 
the  lonely  boy  the  most  precious  thing 
he  had  ever  possessed;  for  it  showed  that 
the  alarming  languor  had  gone;  she  was 
no  longer  thin  and  wan.  He  carried  the 
photograph  with  him,  and  when  he  was 
alone  he  took  it  out.  For  he  was  suffer 
ing  from  the  deepest  pangs  of  homesick 
ness.  He  was  homesick  for  his  mother, 
for  his  mother's  room  (the  only  home  he 
had  ever  known),  with  all  its  attractions 
and  indulgences. 


216  Harper's  Novelettes 

Now  Maso  was  left  alone,  not  only 
schoolless  but  tutorless.  When  the  car 
riage  bearing  the  biographer  of  Colum 
bus  had  disappeared  down  the  road  lead 
ing  to  Lucca,  the  boy  went  back  to  the 
porter,  who,  wearing,  his  stiff  official  cap 
adorned  with  the  name  of  the  hotel,  stood 
airing  his  corpulent  person  in  the  door 
way.  "  Say,  Gregorio,  I'll  take  those  let 
ters  to  the  post-office  if  you  like;  I'm 
going  right  by  there." 

Gregorio  liked  Maso;  all  Italian  serv 
ants  liked  the  boy  and  his  clever  dog. 
In  addition,  the  sunshine  was  hot,  and 
Gregorio  was  not  fond  of  pedestrian  ex 
ercise;  so  he  gave  the  letters  to  Maso 
willingly  enough.  Maso  went  briskly  to 
the  post-office.  Here  he  put  two  of  the 
letters  into  the  box,  but  the  third,  which 
bore  his  mother's  address,  remained  hid 
den  under  his  jacket.  Returning  to  the 
hotel,  he  went  up  to  his  room,  placed  this 
letter  in  his  trunk,  and  locked  the  trunk 
carefully;  then,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Ti 
ber,  he  went  off  for  a  walk.  His  thoughts 
ran  something  as  follows:  "  'Tany  rate, 
mother  sha'n't  know;  that's  settled;  I 
ain't  going  to  let  her  come  back  here  and 
get  sick  again ;  no,  sir !  She's  getting  all 
well  up  there,  and  she's  got  to  stay  four 
whole  months.  There's  no  way  she  can 


A  Transplanted  Boy          217 

hear  that  old  Longlegs "  (this  was  his 
name  for  the  historical  Benjamin),  "has 
gone,  now  that  I've  hooked  his  letter ;  the 
people  she  knows  here  at  the  Bagni  never 
write;  besides,  they  don't  know  where 
she's  staying,  and  I  won't  let  'em  know. 
If  they  see  me  here  alone  they'll  suppose 
Longlegs  has  arranged  it.  I've  got  to 
tell  lies  some;  I've  got  to  pretend,  when 
I  write  to  her,  that  Longlegs  has  sprained 
his  wrist  or  his  leg  or  something,  and 
that's  why  he  can't  write  himself.  I've 
got  to  be  awful  careful  about  what  I  put 
in  my  letters,  so  that  they'll  sound  all 
right ;  but  I  guess  I  can  do  it  bully.  And 
I'll  spend  mighty  little  (only  I'm  going 
to  have  ices) ;  I'll  quit  the  hotel,  and  go 
back  to  that  house  where  we  stayed  be 
fore  the  money  came." 

The  fifty  francs  carried  the  two  through 
a  good  many  days.  Mr.  Tiber,  indeed, 
knew  no  change,  for  he  had  his  coroneted 
bed,  and  the  same  fare  was  provided  for 
him  daily — a  small  piece  of  meat,  plenty 
of  hot  macaroni,  followed  by  a  bit  of 
cake  and  several  lumps  of  sugar.  When 
there  were  but  eight  francs  left,  Maso 
went  to  Pisa.  Mr.  Waterhouse,  who  was 
very  careful  about  money  affairs,  had 
paid  all  his  pupil's  bills  up  to  the  date  of 
his  own  departure,  and  had  then  sent  the 


2i8  Harper's  Novelettes 

remainder  of  the  money  which  Mrs.  Ros- 
coe  had  left  with  him  for  the  summer  to 
her  bankers  at  Pisa.  Maso,  as  a  precau 
tion,  carried  with  him  the  unmailed  let 
ter  which  contained  the  receipt  for  this 
sum.  But  he  hoped  that  he  should  not 
be  obliged  to  open  the  letter;  he  thought 
that 'they  would  give  him  a  little  money 
without  that,  as  they  knew  him  well. 
When  he  reached  Pisa  he  found  that  the 
bank  had  closed  its  doors.  It  had  failed. 

Apparently  it  was  a  bad  failure.  No 
body  (he  inquired  here  and  there)  gave 
him  a  hopeful  word.  At  the  English 
bookseller's  an  assistant  whom  he  knew 
said :  "  Even  if  something  is  recovered 
after  a  while,  I  am  sure  that  nothing  will 
be  paid  out  for  a  long  time  yet.  They 
have  always  been  shaky;  in  my  opinion, 
they  are  rascals." 

Maso  went  back  to  the  Bagni.  In  the 
bewilderment  of  his  thoughts  there  was 
but  one  clear  idea :  "  'Tany  rate,  mother 
sha'n't  know;  she's  got  to  stay  away  four 
whole  months;  the  doctor  said  so." 


IV 


After  a  day  of  thought,  Maso  decided 
that  he  would  leave  the  Bagni  and  go 


A  Transplanted  Boy          219 

down  to  Pisa,  and  stay  at  Casa  Corti. 
Madame  Corti  would  not  be  there  (she 
spent  her  summers  at  Sorrento),  and  offi 
cially  the  pension  was  closed;  hut  Giulio 
would  let  him  remain,  knowing  that  his 
mother  would  pay  for  it  when  she  re 
turned;  he  had  even  a  vision  of  the  very 
room  at  the  top  of  the  house  where  Giu 
lio  would  probably  put  him  —  a  brick- 
floored  cell  next  to  the  linen-room, 
adorned  with  an  ancient  shrine,  and  per 
vaded  by  the  odor  of  freshly  ironed  tow 
els.  It  would  be  no  end  of  a  lark  to 
spend  the  summer  in  Pisa.  Luigi  would 
be  there.  And  the  puppet-shows.  And 
perhaps  Giulio  would  take  him  up  on 
Sundays  to  the  house  on  the  hillside, 
where  his  wife  and  children  lived;  he 
had  taken  him  once,  and  Maso  had  al 
ways  longed  to  go  again.  But  when  he 
reached  Pisa  with  his  dog  and  his  trunk 
he  found  the  Palazzo  Rondinelli  wear 
ing  the  aspect  of  a  deserted  fortress;  the 
immense  outer  doors  were  swung  to  arid 
locked;  there  was  no  sign  of  life  any 
where.  It  had  not  been  closed  for  twenty 
years.  It  was  the  unexpected  which  had 
happened.  Maso  went  round  to  the  stone 
lane  behind  the  palace  to  see  Luigi.  It 
was  then  that  he  learned  that  his  friend, 
had  gone  to  live  in  Leghorn;  he  learned, 


220  Harper's  Novelettes 

also,  that  the  Casa  Corti  servants,  having 
an  opportunity  to  earn  full  wages  at 
Abetone  for  two  months,  had  been  per 
mitted  by  Madame  Corti  to  accept  this 
rare  good  fortune;  the  house,  therefore, 
had  been  closed.  Maso,  thus  adrift,  was 
still  confident  that  the  summer  was  going 
to  be  "  huge,"  a  free  banditlike  existence, 
with  many  enjoyments;  pictures  of  go 
ing  swimming,  and  staying  in  as  long 
as  he  liked,  were  in  his  mind;  also  the 
privilege  of  having  his  hair  shaved  close 
to  his  head,  of  eating  melons  at  his 
pleasure,  and  of  drinking  lemonade  in 
oceans  from  the  gayly  adorned  jingling 
carts.  Of  course  he  should  have  to  get 
something  to  do,  as  his  money  was  al 
most  gone.  Still,  it  would  not  take  much 
to  support  him,  and  there  was  going  to 
be  an  exciting  joy  in  independence,  in 
living  in  "  bachelor  quarters."  He  found 
his  bachelor  quarters  in  the  Street  of  the 
Lily,  a  narrow  passage  that  went  bur 
rowing  along  between  two  continuous 
rows  of  high  old  houses.  The  Lily's 
pavement  was  slimy  with  immemorial 
filth,  and,  in  spite  of  the  heat,  the  damp 
atmosphere  was  like  that  of  an  ill-kept 
refrigerator.  At  the  top  of  one  of  the 
houses  he  established  himself,  with  Mr. 
Tiber,  in  a  bare  room  which  contained 


A  Transplanted  Boy  221 

not  much 'more  than  a  chair  and  a  bed. 
Nevertheless,  the  first  time  he  came  out, 
locked  his  door,  and  descended  the  stairs 
with  the  key  in  his  pocket,  he  felt  like  a 
man;  and  he  carried  himself  like  one, 
with  a  swagger.  The  room  had  one  ad 
vantage — it  contained  a  trap-door  to  the 
roof,  and  there  was  a  ladder  tied  up  to 
the  high  ceiling,  its  rope  secured  by  a 
padlock;  the  boy  soon  contrived  means 
(this  must  have  been  his  Yankee  blood) 
to  get  the  ladder  down  when  he  chose ; 
then  at  night  he  went  up  and  cooled  him 
self  off  on  the  roof,  under  the  stars. 
There  were  two  broken  statues  there — 
for  the  old  house  had  had  its  day  of 
grandeur;  he  made  a  seat,  or  rather  a 
bed,  at  their  feet.  Mr.  Tiber  was  so  un 
happy  down  below  that  Maso  invented  a 
way  to  get  him  up  also;  he  spread  his 
jacket  on  the  floor,  made  Mr.  Tiber  lie 
down  upon  it,  and  then  fastening  the 
sleeves  together  with  a  cord,  he  swung 
the  jacket  round  his  neck  and  ascended 
with  his  burden.  Mr.  Tiber  enjoyed  the 
roof  very  much. 

Having  established  himself,  selected 
his  trattoria,  and  imbibed  a  good  deal  of 
lemonade  as  a  beginning,  the  occupant 
of  the  bachelor  quarters  visited  the  busi 
ness  streets  of  Pisa  in  search  of  employ- 


222  Harper's  Novelettes 

ment.  But  it  was  the  dullest  season  in 
•  a  place  always  dull,  and  no  one  wished 
for  a  new  boy.  At  the  Anglo-American 
Agency  the  clerk,  languid  from  the  heat, 
motioned  him  away  without  a  word;  at 
the  Forwarding  and  Commission  Office 
no  one  looked  at  him  or  spoke  to  him; 
so  it  was  everywhere.  His  friend  the 
bookseller's  assistant  had  gone  for  the 
summer  to  the  branch  establishment  at 
Como. 

Mrs.  Roscoe,  who  detested  Pisa,  had 
established  no  relations  there  save  at  the 
confectioner's  and  at  the  bank.  But  the 
bank  continued  closed,  and  the  confec 
tioner  objected  to  boys  of  thirteen  as 
helpers.  In  this  emergency  Maso  wrote 
to  Luigi,  asking  if  there  was  any  hope 
of  a  place  in 'Leghorn. 

"  There  is  sure  to  be  a  demand  at  the 
large  establishments  for  a  talented  North 
American,"  Luigi  had  answered,  with 
confidence. 

But  Maso  went  up  and  down  the 
streets  of  Leghorn  in  vain;  the  large 
establishments  demanded  nothing. 

"  Say,  Maso,  couldn't  you  look  a  little 
different?"  suggested  Luigi,  anxiously, 
as  they  came  out  of  an  office,  where  he 
had  overheard  the  epithet  "  sullen-faced  " 
applied  to  his  American  friend. 


A  Transplanted  Boy          223 

The  two  boys  spoke  Italian;  Luigi 
knew  no  English. 

"Why,  I  look  as  I'm  made.  Every 
body  looks  as  they're  made,  don't  they?" 
said  Maso,  surprised. 

"  Ah,  but  expression  is  a  beautiful 
thing — a  sympathetic  countenance,"  said 
Luigi,  waving  his  hand.  "  Now  you — 
you  might  smile  more.  Promise  me  to 
try  a  smile  at  the  next  place  where  we  go 
in  to  ask." 

At  three  o'clock  Maso  appeared  at  Lui- 
gi's  shop.  Luigi  was  dusting  goblets. 
"  Well  ?"  he  said,  inquiringly. 

Maso  shook  his  head. 

"Didn't  you  smile?" 

"Yes,  I  did  it  as  I  took  off  my  hat. 
And  every  time  they  seemed  so  sur 
prised." 

"  I've  a  new  idea,  Maso ;  behold  it :  the 
consul  of  your  country!" 

"  Is  there  one  in  Leghorn  ?"  asked 
Maso,  vaguely. 

"  Of  course  there  is ;  I  have  seen 
the  sign  many  a  time."  And  Luigi 
mentioned  the  street  and  the  num 
ber. 

The  proprietor  of  the  shop,  who  was 

packing  a  case  of  the  slender  Epiphany 

trumpets,  now  broke  one  by  accident,  and 

immediately    scolded    Luigi    in    a    loud 

is 


224  Harper's  Novelettes 

voice;  Maso  was  obliged  to  make  a  hasty 
departure. 

The  office  of  the  representative  of  the 
United  States  government  was  indicated 
by  a  painted  shield  bearing  the  insignia 
of  the  republic,  and  a  brass  plate  below, 
with  the  following  notification :  "  Con- 
solato  degli  Stati  -  Uniti  d'  America." 
The-  first  word  of  this  inscription  rouses 
sometimes  a  vague  thrill  in  the  minds 
of  homesick  Americans  in  Italy  com 
ing  to  pay  a  visit  to  their  flag  and  the 
eagle. 

As  it  happened,  the  consul  himself  was 
there  alone.  Maso,  upon  entering,  took 
off  his  hat  and  tried  his  smile,  then  he 
began :  "  If  you  please,  I  am  trying  to 
get  a  place — something  to  do.  I  thought 
perhaps,  sir,  that  you  might — 

He  stopped,  and  in  his  embarrassment 
put  the  toe  of  his  shoe  into  a  hole  in  the 
matting,  and  moved  it  about  industri 
ously. 

"  Don't  spoil  my  matting,"  said  the 
consul.  "  You're  a  very  young  boy  to  be 
looking  for  a  place." 

"  I'm  going  on  fourteen." 

"  And  of  what  nation  are  you  ?"  de 
manded  the  consul,  after  another  survey. 

"  Why,  I'm  American,"  said  Maso, 
surprised. 


A  Transplanted  Boy  225 

"I  shouldn't  have  taken  you  for  one. 
What  is  your  name?" 

"  Maso — I  mean  Thom-as  Ross  Coe," 
replied  the  boy,  bringing  out  the  sylla 
bles  with  something  of  an  Italian  pro 
nunciation. 

"  Tummarse  Errosco  ?  Do  you  call 
that  an  American  name?" 

"  I'll  write  it,"  said  Maso,  blushing. 
He  wrote  it  in  large  letters  on  the  edge 
of  a  newspaper  that  was  near  him. 

"  Thomas  R.  Coe,"  read  the  consul. 
"  Coe  is  your  name,  then?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  want  something  to  do,  eh  ? 
What  do  you  want,  and  why  do  you  come 
here  for  it?" 

Maso  told  his  story,  or  rather  a  tale 
which  he  had  prepared  on  his  way  to  the 
consulate.  It  was  a  confused  narrative, 
because  he  did  not  wish  to  betray  any 
thing  that  could  give  a  clew  to  his 
mother's  address. 

The  consul  asked  questions.  "A  fail 
ure,  eh?  What  failure?" 

"  It — it  wasn't  in  Leghorn." 

"And  your  mother  will  be  back  in 
September?  Where  is  she  at  pre 
sent?" 

"  She — she  is  north ;  she  isn't  very 
well,  and — "  But  he  could  not  think  of 


226  Harper's  Novelettes 

anything  that  he  could  safely  add,  so  he 
stopped. 

"  We  haven't  any  places  for  boys.  Did 
you  expect  me  to  take  you  in  here?" 

"No,  sir.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd 
recommend  me." 

"  On  general  principles,  I  suppose,  as 
an  American,  seeing  that  I  don't  know 
anything  else  about  you.  And  you  se 
lected  the  Fourth  as  a  nice  good  patriotic 
day  for  it?" 

"The  Fourth?" 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  day  it  is  ?" 

"Yes,  sir— Tuesday." 

The  consul  looked  at  him,  and  saw 
that  he  spoke  in  good  faith.  "  You 
an  American  boy?  I  guess  not!  You 
may  go."  And  dipping  his  pen  in  the 
ink,  he  resumed  his  writing. 

Maso,  though  disturbed  and  bewilder 
ed,  held  his  ground.  He  certainly  was 
an  American  boy.  What  could  the  man 
mean? 

"  I'm  an  American.  True  as  you  live, 
I  am,"  said  Maso,  earnestly. 

Something  in  his  face  made  the  consul 
relent  a  little.  "Perhaps  you've  got 
some  American  blood  hidden  in  you 
somewhere.  But  it  must  be  pretty  well 
thinned  out  not  to  know  the  Fourth  of 
July!  I  suppose  you've  never  heard 


A  Transplanted  Boy          227 

of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
either?" 

A  gleam  of  light  now  illumined  the 
darkness  of  Maso's  mind.  "  Oh,  yes ;  I 
know  now;  in  the  History."  He  rallied. 
"  The  Indians  took  a  very  bloody  part  in 
it,"  he  added,  with  confidence. 

"  Oh,  they  did,  did  they?  Where  were 
you  brought  up?" 

"In  Italy,  most;  a  little  in  other 
places.  I  came  abroad  before  I  was 
two." 

"  I  see — one  of  the  expatriated  class," 
said  Maclean,  contemptuously.  He  had 
a  great  contempt  for  Americans  who 
leave  their  own  country  and  reside 
abroad.  The  dialogue  ended,  after  a  lit 
tle  more  talk,  in  his  saying:  "Well,  you 
get  me  a  note  from  your  mother  (I  sup 
pose  you  write  to  her?)  telling  me  some 
thing  more  about  you.  Then  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do."  For  the  boy's  story  had 
been  a  very  vague  one. 

As  Maso,  heavy-hearted,  turned  to 
wards  the  door,  Maclean  suddenly  felt 
sorry  for  him.  He  was  such  a  little  fel 
low,  and  somehow  his  back  looked  so 
tired.  "  See  here,  my  son,"  he  said, 
"here's  something  for  the  present.  No 
use  telling  you  to  buy  firecrackers  with 
it,  for  they  haven't  got  'em  here.  But 


228  Harper's  Novelettes 

you  might  buy  rockets;  can't  look  out 
of  the  window  summer  nights  in  this 
place  without  seeing  a  lonely  rocket 
shooting  up  somewhere."  He  held  out 
two  francs. 

Maso's  face  grew  scarlet.  "  I'd  rather 
not,  unless  I  can  work  for  it,"  he  mut 
tered.  It  was  a  new  feeling  to  be  taken 
for  a  beggar. 

"  You  can  work  enough  for  that  if  you 
want  to.  There  is  a  printed  list  on  that 
desk,  and  a  pile  of  circulars;  you  can  di 
rect  them.  Show  me  the  first  dozen,  so 
that  I  can  see  if  they'll  pass." 

Maso  sat  down  at  the  desk.  He  put 
his  hat  in  six  different  places  before  he 
could  collect  his  wits  and  get  to  work. 
When  he  brought  the  dozen  envelopes 
for  inspection,  Maclean  said: 

"  You  seem  to  know  Eyetalian  well, 
with  all  these  Eyetalian  names.  I  can't 
make  head  or  tail  of  'em.  But  as  to 
handwriting,  it's  about  the  worst  I  ever 
saw." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  answered  Maso, 
ashamed.  "  I've  never  had  regular  les 
sons,  'cepting  this  summer,  when — "  He 
stopped;  Mr.  Waterhouse's  name  would 
be,  perhaps,  a  clew.  He  finished  the  cir 
culars;  it  took  an  hour  and  a  half.  The 
consul  shook  hands  with  him,  the  mo- 


A  Transplanted  Boy  229 

chanical  hand-shake  of  the  public  func 
tionary.  "  You  get  me  that  note,  and 
I'll  see." 

Maso  went  back  to  Pisa. 

When  he  arrived  at  his  door  in  the 
Street  of  the  Lily,  the  wife  of  the  cobbler 
who  lived  on  the  ground-floor  handed, 
him  a  letter  which  the  postman  had  left. 
The  sight  of  it  made  the  boy's  heart 
light ;  he  forgot  his  weariness,  and  climb 
ing  the  stairs  quickly,  he  unlocked  his 
door  and  entered  his  room,  Mr.  Tiber 
barking  a  joyous  welcome.  Mr.  Tiber 
had  been  locked  in  all  day;  but  he  had 
had  a  walk  in  the  early  morning,  and  his 
solitude  had  been  tempered  by  plenty  of 
food  on  a  plate,  a  bowl  of  fresh  water, 
and  a  rubber  ball  to  play  with.  Maso  sat 
down,  and,  with  the  dog  on  his  knees, 
tore  open  his  letter.  It  was  directed  to 
him  at  Pisa,  in  a  rough  handwriting, 
but  within  there  was  a  second  envelope, 
enclosing  a  letter  from  his  mother,  which 
bore  the  address  of  the  hotel  at  the 
Bagni  di  Lucca,  where  she  supposed  that 
her  son  was  staying  with  his  tutor.  She 
wrote  regularly,  and  she  sent  polite  mes 
sages  to  Waterhouse,  regretting  so  much 
that  his  severe  sprain  prevented  him 
from  writing  to  her  in  reply.  Maso,  in 
Lis  answers,  represented  himself  as  the 


230  Harper's  Novelettes 

most  hopelessly  stupid  pupil  old  Long- 
legs  had  ever  been  cursed  with;  in  the 
network  of  deception  in  which  he  was 
now  involved  he  felt  this  somehow  to  be 
a  relief.  He  had  once  heard  an  Amer 
ican  boy  call  out  to  another  who 
was  slow  in  understanding  something, 
"  You're  an  old  gumpy " ;  so  he  wrote, 
"  Longlegs  yels  out  every  day  your  an 
old  gumpy,"  which  greatly  astonished 
Mrs.  Roscoe.  The  boy  exerted  every 
power  he  had  to  make  his  letters  appear 
natural.  But  the  task  was  so  difficult 
that  each  missive  read  a  good  deal  like  a 
ball  discharged  from  a  cannon;  there 
was  always  a  singularly  abrupt  state 
ment  regarding  the  weather;  and  another 
about  the  food  at  the  hotel ;  then  followed 
two  or  three  sentences  about  Longlegs; 
and  he  was  her  "  affecshionate  son  Maso. 
P.S.— Mr.  Tiber  is  very  well."  He  sent 
these  replies  to  the  Bagni;  here  his 
friend  the  porter,  taking  off  the  outer 
envelope,  which  was  directed  to  himself, 
put  the  letter  within  with  the  others  to 
go  to  the  post-office;  in  this  way  Maso's 
epistles  bore  the  postmark,  "  Bagni  di 
Lucca."  For  these  services  Maso  had 
given  his  second-best  suit  of  clothes, 
with  shoes  and  hat,  to  the  porter's  young 
son,  who  had  aspirations. 


A  Transplanted  Boy          231 

The  present  letter  from  Mrs.  Roscoe 
was  full  of  joyousness  and  jokes.  But 
the  great  news  was  that  she  intended  to 
make  a  tour  in  Switzerland  in  August, 
and  as  she  missed  her  little  boy  too  much 
to  enjoy  it  without  him,  she  had  written 
urgently  to  America  about  money,  and 
she  hoped  that  before  long  (she  had  told 
them  to  cable)  she  could  send  for  him  to 
join  her.  Maso  was  wildly  happy;  to  be 
with  his  mother  again,  and  yet  not  to 
have  her  return  to  Italy  before  the  im 
portant  four  months  were  over,  that  was 
perfect;  he  got  up,  opened  his  trunk,  and 
refolded  his  best  jacket  and  trousers  with 
greater  care,  even  before  he  finished  the 
letter.  For  he  wore  now  continuously 
his  third-best  suit,  as  the  second-best  had 
been  left  at  the  Bagni.  At  last,  when  he 
knew  the  letter  by  heart,  he  washed  his 
face  and  hands,  and,  accompanied  by 
Mr.  Tiber,  tail-wagging  and  expectant, 
went  down  to  get  supper  at  the  trattoria 
near  by. 

The  next  day  he  tried  Pisa  again, 
searching  for  employment  through  street 
after  street.  His  mother  had  written 
that  she  hoped  to  send  for  him  early  in 
August.  It  was  now  the  5th  of  July,  so 
that  there  were  only  four  or  five  weeks 
to  provide  for;  and  then  there  would  be 


232  Harper's  Novelettes 

his  fare  back  to  the  Bagni.  But  his 
second  quest  was  hardly  more  fortunate 
than  the  first.  The  only  person  who  did 
not  wave  a  forefinger  in  perspiring  nega 
tive  even  before  he  had  opened  his  lips 
was  a  desiccated  youth,  who,  sitting  in 
his  shirt  sleeves,  with  his  feet  up  and  a 
tumbler  beside  him,  gave  something  of 
an  American  air  (although  Maso  did  not 
know  that)  to  a  frescoed  apartment  in 
which  sewing-machines  were  offered  for 
sale.  This  exile  told  him  to  add  up  a 
column  of  figures,  to  show  what  he  could 
do.  But  when  he  saw  that  the  boy  was 
doing  his  counting  with  his  fingers,  he 
nodded  him  toward  the  door.  "Better 
learn  to  play  the  flute,"  he  suggested, 
sarcastically. 

Maso  was  aware  that  accountants  are 
not  in  the  habit  of  running  a  scale  with 
the  fingers  of  their  left  hand  on  the  edge 
of  their  desks,  or  of  saying  aloud,  "  six 
and  three  are  nine,"  "  seven  and  five  are 
twelve,"  and  "naught's  naught."  He 
had  caught  these  methods  from  his 
mother,  who  always  counted  in  that  way. 
He  clinched  his  fingers  into  his  palm  as 
he  went  down  the  stairs;  he  would  never 
count  with  them  again.  But  no  one 
asked  him  to  count,  or  to  do  anything 
else.  In  the  afternoon  he  sought  the 


A  Transplanted  Boy  233 

poorer  streets;  here  he  tried  shop  after 
shop.  The  atmosphere  was  like  that  of 
a  vapor  bath;  he  felt  tired  and  dull.  At 
last,  late  in  the  day,  a  cheese-seller  gave 
him  a  hope  of  employment  at  the  end 
of  the  week.  The  wages  were  very 
small;  still,  it  was  something;  and,  re 
freshed  by  the  thought,  he  went  home 
(as  he  called  it),  released  Mr.  Tiber, 
and,  as  the  sun  was  now  low,  took  him 
off  for  a  walk.  By  hazard  he  turned 
toward  the  part  of  the  town  which  is 
best  known  to  travellers,  that  outlying 
quarter  where  the  small  cathedral,  the 
circular  baptistery,  and  the  Leaning 
Tower  keep  each  other  company,  folded 
in  a  protecting  corner  of  the  crenellated 
city  wall.  The  Arno  was  flowing  slowly, 
as  if  tired  and  hot,  under  its  bridges ; 
Pisa  looked  deserted ;  the  pavements  were 
scorching  under  the  feet. 


The  cheese  shop  was  blazing  with  the 
light  of  four  flaring  gas-burners;  the 
floor  had  been  watered  a  short  time  be 
fore,  and  this  made  the  atmosphere  reek 
more  strongly  than  ever  with  the  odors 
of  the  smoked  fish  and  sausages,  caviare 


234  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  oil,  which,  with  the  cheese,  formed 
the  principal  part  of  the  merchandise 
offered  for  sale.  There  was  no  current 
of  air  passing  through  from  the  open 
door,  for  the  atmosphere  outside  was  per 
fectly  still.  Tranquilly  hovering  mos 
quitoes  were  everywhere,  but  Maso  did 
not  mind  these  much;  he  objected  more 
to  the  large  black  beetles  that  came 
noiselessly  out  at  night;  he  hated  the 
way  they  stood  on  the  shelves  as  if  star 
ing  at  him,  motionless  save  for  the  wav 
ing  to  and  fro  of  their  long  antennae. 
A  boy  came  in  to  buy  cheese.  It  was 
soft  cheese;  Maso  weighed  it,  and  put  it 
upon  a  grape-leaf.  "  It  just  gets  hotter 
and  hotter!"  he  remarked,  indignantly. 
The  Italian  lad  did  not  seem  to  mind  the 
heat  much;  he  was  buttery  with  per 
spiration  from  morning  until  night,  but 
as  he  had  known  no  other  atmosphere 
than  that  of  Pisa,  he  supposed  that  this 
was  the  normal  summer  condition  of  the 
entire  world.  It  was  the  27th  of  July. 

On  the  last  day  of  July,  when  Maso's 
every  breath  was  accompanied  by  an  an 
ticipation  of  Switzerland,  there  had  ar 
rived  a  long  disappointed  letter  from  his 
mother;  the  hoped-for  money  had  not 
come,  and  would  not  come :  "  Reuben 
John  again!"  The  Swiss  trip  must  be 


A  Transplanted  Boy          235 

given  up,  and  now  the  question  was, 
could  Mr.  Waterhouse  keep  him  awhile 
longer  ?  "  Because  if  he  cannot,  I  shall 
return  to  the  Bagni  next  week."  Maso, 
though  choked  with  the  disappointment, 
composed  a  letter  in  which  he  said  that 
old  Longlegs  was  delighted  to  keep  him, 
and  was  sorry  he  could  not  write  him 
self,  but  his  arm  continued  stiff ;  "  prob'- 
ly  heel  never  be  able  to  write  agane," 
he  added,  darkly,  so  as  to  make  an  end, 
once  for  all,  of  that  complicated  subject. 
There  was  no  need  of  her  return,  not 
the  least;  he  and  Mr.  Tiber  were  well, 
"  and  having  loads  of  fun " ;  and,  be 
sides,  there  was  not  a  single  empty  room 
in  the  hotel  or  anywhere  else,  and  would 
not  be  until  the  6th  of  September;  there 
had  never  been  such  a  crowd  at  the 
Bagni  before.  He  read  over  what  he 
had  written,  and  perceiving  that  he  had 
given  an  impression  of  great  gayety  at 
the  Italian  watering  -  place,  he  added, 
"P.S.  peple  all  cooks  turists."  (For 
Mrs.  Roscoe  was  accustomed  to  declare 
that  she  hated  these  inoffensive  travel 
lers.)  Then  he  signed  his  name  in  the 
usual  way:  "your  affecshionate  son, 
Maso."  He  never  could  help  blotting 
when  he  wrote  his  name — probably  be 
cause  he  was  trying  to  write  particular- 


236  Harper's  Novelettes 

]y  well.  Mrs.  Roscoe  once  said  that  it 
was  always  either  blot  "  so,"  or  "  Ma " 
blot ;  this  time  it  was  "  Ma  "  blot. 

This  letter  despatched,  the  boy's  stead 
iness  broke  down.  He  did  not  go  back 
to  the  cheese-seller's  shop;  he  lived  upon 
the  money  he  had  earned,  and  when  that 
was  gone  he  sold  his  clothes,  keeping 
only  those  he  wore  and  his  best  suit, 
with  a  change  of  underclothing.  Next 
he  sold  his  trunk;  then  his  school-books, 
though  they  brought  but  a  few  centimes. 
The  old  fairy-book  he  kept;  he  read  it 
during  the  hot  noon-times,  lying  on  the 
floor,  with  Mr.  Tiber  by  his  side.  The 
rest  of  the  day  he  devoted  to  those  pleas 
ures  of  which  he  had  dreamed.  He 
went  swimming,  and  stayed  in  for  hours; 
and  he  made  Mr.  Tiber  swim.  He  in 
dulged  himself  as  regarded  melons;  he 
went  to  the  puppet-show  accompanied 
by  Tiber;  he  had  had  his  hair  cut  so 
closely  that  it  was  hardly  more  than 
yellow  down;  and  he  swaggered  about 
the  town  in  the  evening  smoking  cigar 
ettes.  After  three  weeks  of  this  vaga 
bond  existence  he  went  back  to  the 
cheese-seller,  offering  to  work  for  half 
wages.  His  idea  was  to  earn  money 
enough  for  his  fare  to  the  Bagni,  and 
also  to  pay  for  the  washing  of  his  few 


A  Transplanted  Boy          237 

clothes,  so  that  he  might  be  in  respecta 
ble  condition  to  meet  his  mother  on  the 
6th  of  September;  for  on  the  6th  the 
four  months  would  be  up,  and  she  could 
safely  return.  This  was  his  constant 
thought.  Of  late  he  had  spoken  of  the 
6th  in  his  letters,  and  she  had  agreed 
to  it,  so  there  was  no  doubt  of  her  com 
ing.  To-day,  August  27,  he  had  been 
at  work  for  a  week  at  the  cheese-seller's, 
and  the  beetles  were  blacker  and  more 
crafty  than  ever. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  the  shop 
was  kept  open  late;  but  at  last  he  was 
released,  and  went  home.  The  cobbler's 
wife  handed  him  his  letter,  and  he 
stopped  to  read  it  by  the  light  of  her 
strongly  smelling  petroleum  lamp.  For 
he  had  only  a  short  end  of  a  candle  up 
stairs;  and,  besides,  he  could  not  wait, 
he  was  so  sure  that  he  should  find, 
within,  the  magic  words,  "  I  shall  come 
by  the  train  that  reaches  Lucca  at — " 
and  then  a  fixed  date  and  hour  written 
down  in  actual  figures  on  the  page. 

The  letter  announced  that  his  mother 
had  put  off  her  return  for  three  weeks: 
she  was  going  to  Paris.  "  As  you  are 
having  such  a  wonderfully  good  time  at 
the  Bagni  this  summer,  you  won't  mind 
this  short  delay.  If  by  any  chance  Mr. 


238  Harper's  Novelettes 

Waterhouse  cannot  keep  you  so  long,  let 
him  telegraph  me.  No  telegram  will 
mean  that  he  can."  She  spoke  of  the 
things  she  should  bring  to  him  from 
Paris,  and  the  letter  closed  with  the 
sentence,  "I  am  so  glad  I  have  thought 
of  this  beautiful  idea  before  settling 
down  again  in  that  deadly  Casa  Corti 
for  the  winter."  (But  the  idea  had  a 
human  shape:  Violet  Roscoe's  ideas  were 
often  personified;  they  took  the  form  of 
agreeable  men.) 

"Evil  news?  Tell  me  not  so!"  said 
the  cobbler's  wife,  who  had  noticed  the 
boy's  face  as  he  read. 

"  Pooh !  no,"  answered  Maso,  stoutly. 
He  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket  and 
went  up  to  his  room.  As  he  unlocked 
his  door,  there  was  not  the  usual  joyful 
rush  of  Mr.  Tiber  against  his  legs;  the 
silence  was  undisturbed.  He  struck  a 
match  on  the  wall  and  lighted  his  can 
dle  end.  There,  in  the  corner,  on  his  lit 
tle  red  coverlid,  lay  Mr.  Tiber,  asleep. 
Then,  as  the  candle  burned  more  bright 
ly,  it  could  be  seen  that  it  was  not  sleep. 
There  was  food  on  the  tin  plate  and 
water  in  the  bowl;  he  had  not  needed 
anything.  There  was  no  sign  of  suffer 
ing  in  the  attitude,  or  on  the  little  black 
face  with  its  closed  eyes  (to  Maso  that 


A  Transplanted  Boy          239 

face  had  always  been  as  clearly  intelli 
gible  as  a  human  countenance) ;  the  ap 
pearance  was  as  if  the  dog  had  sought 
his  own  corner  and  his  coverlid,  and  had 
laid  himself  down  to  die  very  peacefully 
without  a  pain  or  a  struggle. 

The  candle  end  had  long  burned  itself 
out,  and  the  boy  still  lay  on  the  floor 
with  his  arm  round  his  pet.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  his  heart  would  break.  "  Mr. 
Tiber,  dear  little  Tiber,  my  own  little 
doggie — dying  here  all  alone! — kinnin 
little  chellow!"  Thus  he  sobbed  and 
sobbed  until  he  was  worn  out.  Towards 
dawn  came  the  thought  of  what  must 
follow.  But  no;  Mr.  Tiber  should  not 
be  taken  away  and  thrown  into  some  horr 
rible  place!  If  he  wished  to  prevent  it, 
however,  he  must  be  very  quick.  He  had 
one  of  the  large  colored  handkerchiefs 
which  Italians  use  instead  of  baskets;  as 
the  dawn  grew  brighter  he  spread  it  out, 
laid  his  pet  carefully  in  the  centre,  and 
knotted  the  corners  together  tightly; 
then,  after  bathing  his  face,  to  conceal 
as  much  as  possible  the  traces  of  his 
tears,  he  stole  down  the  stairs,  and  pass 
ing  through  the  town,  carrying  his  bur 
den  in  the  native  fashion,  he  took  a  road 
which  led  toward  the  hills. 

It  was  a  long  walk.     The  little  body 

16 


240  Harper's  Novelettes 

which  had  been  so  light  in  life  weighed 
now  like  lead;  but  it  might  have  been 
twice  as  heavy,  he  would  not  have  been 
conscious  of  it.  He  reached  the  place  at 
last,  the  house  where  Giulio's  wife  lived, 
with  her  five  children,  near  one  of  the 
hillside  villages,  which,  as  seen  from 
Pisa,  shine  like  white  spots  on  the  ver 
dure.  Paola  came  out  from  her  dark 
dwelling,  and  listened  to  his  brief  ex 
planation  with  wonder.  To  take  so  much 
trouble  for  a  dog!  But  she  was  a  mild 
creature,  her  ample  form  cowlike,  her 
eyes  cowlike  also,  and  therefore  beauti 
ful;  she  accompanied  him,  and  she  kept 
the  curious  crowding  children  in  some 
kind  of  order  while  the  boy,  with  her 
spade,  dug  a  grave  in  the  corner  of  a  field 
which  she  pointed  out.  Maso  dug  and 
dug  in  the  heat.  He  was  so  afraid  of 
the  peasant  cupidity  that  he  did  not  dare 
to  leave  the  dog  wrapped  in  the  cotton 
handkerchief,  lest  the  poor  little  tomb 
should  be  rifled  to  obtain  it;  he  gave  it, 
therefore,  to  one  of  the  children,  and 
gathering  fresh  leaves,  he  made  a  bed  of 
them  at  the  bottom  of  the  hole;  then 
leaning  down,  he  laid  his  pet  tenderly 
on  the  green,  and  covered  him  thickly 
with  more  foliage,  the  softest  he  could 
find.  When  the  last  trace  of  the  little 


A  Transplanted  Boy          241 

black  head  had  disappeared  he  took  up 
the  spade,  and  with  eyes  freshly  wet 
again  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  prevent  it, 
he  filled  up  the  grave  as  quickly  as  he 
could,  levelling  the  ground  smoothly 
above  it.  He  had  made  his  excavation 
very  deep,  in  order  that  no  one  should 
meddle  with  the  place  later:  it  would  be 
too  much  trouble. 

It  was  now  nearly  noon.  He  gave 
Paola  three  francs,  which  was  half  of 
all  he  possessed.  Then,  with  one  quick 
glance  towards  the  corner  of  the  field, 
he  started  on  his  long  walk  back  to  Pisa. 


VI 


"  Do  you  know  where  you'll  end,  Ro 
berta?  You'll  end  with  us,"  said  Mrs. 
Harrowbv. 

"With  you?" 

"Yes;  in  the  Church.  You've  tried 
everything,  beginning  with  geology  and 
ending  with  music  (I  can't  help  laugh 
ing  at  the  last;  you  never  had  any  ear), 
and  you  have  found  no  satisfaction. 
You  are  the  very  kind  to  come  to  us; 
they  always  do." 

The  speaker,  an  American  who  lived 
in  Naples,  had  entered  the  Roman  Cath- 


242          Harper's  Novelettes 

olic  Church  ten  years  before;  in  Boston 
she  had  been  a  Unitarian.  It  was  the 
10th  of  September,  and  she  was  staying 
for  a  day  in  Pisa  on  her  way  southward; 
she  had  encountered  Miss  Spring  by 
chance  in  the  piazza  of  Santa  Caterina 
at  sunset,  and  the  two  had  had  a  long 
talk  with  the  familiarity  which  an  ac 
quaintance  in  childhood  carries  with  it, 
though  years  of  total  separation  may 
have  intervened. 

"  There  is  one  other  alternative,"  an 
swered  Miss  Spring;  "it  was  suggested 
by  a  pretty  little  woman  who  used  to  be 
here.  She  advised  me  to  try  crystal 
scent  -  bottles  and  dissipation."  This 
being  a  joke,  Miss  Spring  had  intended  to 
smile;  but  at  this  instant  her  attention 
was  attracted  by  something  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  and  her  face  remained 
serious. 

"  Crystal  scent-bottles  ?  Dissipation  ? 
Mercy!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Harrowby. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

But  her  companion  had  gone;  she  was 
hurrying  across  the  street.  "It  isn't 
possible,  Maso,  that  this  is  you!"  She 
spoke  to  a  ragged,  sick-looking  boy. 

Two  hours  after  her  question  Maso 
was  in  bed  in  the  Palazzo  Kondinelli. 
Madame  Corti  never  came  back  till  Oc- 


A  Transplanted  Boy          243 

tober,  and  the  pension  was  not  open,  but 
the  servants  were  there.  The  house 
keeper  went  through  the  form  of  making 
protest :  "  The  signora  has  always  such 
great  alarm  about  fever." 

"  You  will  refer  Madame  Corti  to  me ; 
I  will  pay  for  her  alarm,"  answered 
Roberta,  marching  past  her  to  direct  the 
driver  of  the  carriage,  who  was  assisting 
Maso  up  the  stairs.  "  It's  not  infectious 
fever.  Only  malarial."  Roberta  was 
something  of  a  doctor  herself.  She  su 
perintended  in  person  the  opening  of  a 
large  cool  room  on  the  second  floor,  the 
making  of  the  bed,  then  the  installation 
of  Maso  between  linen  sheets.  The  serv 
ants  were  all  fond  of  the  boy;  in  addi 
tion,  Madame  Corti  was  in  Sorrento,  and 
Miss  Spring's  francs  were  here.  Her 
francs  were  few,  but  she  spent  them  for 
Maso  as  generously  as  though  they  had 
been  many. 

The  boy,  as  soon  as  he  was  in  bed, 
whispered  to  Giulio,  "Pencil;  paper." 
Then,  when  Miss  Spring  had  left  the 
room,  he  scrawled  on  the  page,  Giulio 
holding  a  book  under  it,  "  My  dog  is 
ded,"  and  signed  his  name.  He  told 
Giulio  to  give  this  to  her  when  she  came 
in;  then,  as, he  heard  her  step,  he  quick 
ly  closed  his  eyes. 


244  Harper's  Novelettes 

Miss  Spring  read,  and  understood. 
"He  was  afraid  I  should  ask.  And  he 
could  not  speak  of  it.  He  remembers, 
poor  little  fellow,  that  I  did  not  care  for 
the  dog." 

Maso  had  refused  to  tell  her  where  his 
mother  was.  "  She's  coming,  on  the 
22d,  to  the  Bagni  di  Lucca " ;  this  was 
all  he  would  say.  The  next  morning  at 
daylight  she  left  him  with  the  nurse  (for 
she  had  sent  immediately  for  Dr.  Prior 
and  for  one  of  the  best  nurses  in  Pisa), 
and  driving  to  the  Street  of  the  Lily, 
she  ascended  the  unclean  stairs,  with  her 
skirts  held  high  and  her  glasses  on,  to 
the  room  at  the  top  of  the  house.  Maso 
had  himself  gathered  his  few  possessions 
together  after  his  meeting  with  her  in 
the  piazza  of  Santa  Caterina,  but  he  had 
not  had  the  strength  to  carry  them  down 
to  the  lower  door.  Miss  Spring  took  the 
two  parcels,  which  were  tied  up  in  news 
papers,  and  after  looking  about  to  see 
that  there  was  nothing  left,  she  descend 
ed  in  the  same  gingerly  way,  and  re- 
entered  the  carriage  which  was  waiting  at 
the  door,  its  wheels  grazing  the  opposite 
house.  "Yes,  he  is  ill;  malarial  fever. 
But  we  hope  he  will  recover,"  she  said  to 
the  cobbler's  wife,  who  inquired  with 
grief  and  affection,  and  a  very  dirty  face. 


A  Transplanted  Boy          245 

To  find  Mrs.  Koscoe's  address,  so  that 
she  could  telegraph  to  her,  Miss  Spring 
was  obliged  to  look  through  Maso's  par 
cels.  She  could  not  ask  his  permission, 
for  he  recognized  no  one  now;  his  mind 
wandered.  One  of  the  bundles  contained 
the  best  suit,  still  carefully  saved  for  his 
mother's  arrival.  The  other  held  his 
few  treasures:  his  mother's  letters, 
with  paper  and  envelopes  for  his 
own  replies ;  the  old  fairy  -  book ;  and 
Mr.  Tiber's  blanket,  coverlid,  and  lit 
tle  collar,  wrapped  in  a  clean  handker 
chief.  The  latest  letter  gave  the  Paris 
address. 

"My  dear  little  boy!  If  I  could  only 
have  known !"  moaned  Violet  Roscoe, 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  with  her 
child  in  her  arms.  She  had  just  arrived ; 
her  gloves  were  still  on.  "  Oh,  Maso, 
why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

Maso's  face,  gaunt  and  brown,  lay  on 
her  shoulder;  his  eyes  were  strange,  but 
he  knew  her.  "You  mustn't  get  sick 
again,  mother,"  he  murmured,  anxious 
ly,  the  fixed  idea  of  the  summer  assert 
ing  itself.  Then  a  wider  recollection 
dawned.  "  Oh,  mother,"  he  whispered 
with  his  dry  lips,  "  Mr.  Tiber's  dead. 
Little  Tiber!" 


246  Harper's  Novelettes 

A  month  later  Mr.  Keuben  J.  Coe,  of 
Coesville,  New  Hampshire,  said  to  his 
brother  David:  "That  foolish  wife  of 
Tom's  is  coming  home  at  last.  In  spite 
of  every  effort  on  my  part,  she  has  made 
ducks  and  drakes  of  almost  all  her 
money." 

"  Is  that  why  she  is  coming  back  ?" 
"No;  thinks  it  will  be  better  for  the 
boy.     But  I'm  afraid   it's  too  late  for 
that." 


Zan  Zoo 

BY  GEORGE  HEATH 

THERE  was  a  soft  burring  sound. 
You  would  have  noticed  it  if  you 
had  been  there,  and  you  would 
very  much  have  wondered  what  it  was. 
Again,  again,  and  again — so  soft,  so 
gentle,  so  entreating.  Now  you  would 
surely  know  it  came  from  behind  the 
hedge  of  cacti,  and  if  you  walked  around 
to  the  other  side  you  would  see  little 
Zan  Zoo  lying  on  her  stomach,  her  feet 
conveniently  resting  on  her  back.  Zan 
Zoo  is  talking  to  the  turtle-doves.  She 
has  tied  a  string  to  a  tiny  foot  on  each 
dove  to  make  sure  they  will  not  get  be 
yond  conversational  distance.  Zan  Zoo 
is  thinking  "what  very  little  feet  the 
doves  have"  as  they  walk  about  with 
their  funny  short  steps.  Then  she  re 
members  with  satisfaction  her  own  won 
derful  feet.  She  carefully  ties  the  strings 
to  her  thumb,  sits  upright,  and  crosses 
her  feet  into  her  lap.  There  is  nothing 


248          Harper's  Novelettes 

in  the  world,  Zan  thinks,  so  beautiful 
as  her  feet.  Doesn't  every  one  speak  of 
them?  Don't  all  the  boys  say,  "Let's 
see  your  feet,  Zan,"  when  they  catch  her 
sitting  on  them?  Zan's  feet  are  not 
small;  they  are  not  white;  they  are  not 
well  shaped.  Why  does  she  look  at  them 
with  that  wide  grin  of  perfect  satisfac 
tion?  She  fairly  chuckles  over  them. 
Now  she  counts  her  toes — one,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six.  It  is  quite  true — six  on 
each  foot. 

The  doves  come  close  to  her.  There  is 
the  pretty  liquid  note  once  more.  "  What 
do  you  say  to  the  doves  ?"  I  ask.  "  They 
know,"  is  the  brief  answer;  and  indeed 
they  seem  to,  for  in  a  moment  they  are 
on  her  shoulders,  daintily  arranging 
their  iridescent  finery,  and  the  look  of 
intelligence  in  Zan's  eyes  tells  that  it 
is  in  response  to  her  request. 

She  stands  up,  the  birds  still  on  her 
shoulders.  It  is  all  strange  and  curious 
to  me — the  handsome  little  Caffre  girl 
making  the  doves  obey  her  so  prettily; 
the  long  narrow  garden,  with  its  cactus 
hedge,  its  clump  of  bamboos,  the  fig-trees 
here  and  there,  and  farther  on  the  grove 
of  bananas,  and  over  all  the  deep  blue 
sky,  bluer  than  anything  I  had  ever 
dreamed  of  before;  and  the  high  huts  on 


Zan  Zoo  249 

every  side,  with  strange  lights  and  shad 
ows  now  brightening,  now  darkening 
them.  "  How  beautiful !"  I  exclaim. 
Zan  looks  at  her  feet,  and  says  "  Yes." 

When  I  returned  to  the  farm-house  I 
made  inquiries  concerning  my  new  ac 
quaintance.  It  seems  that  she  belonged 
on  the  farm,  and  had  been  deserted  by 
both  father  and  mother.  I  was  told  that 
she  was  extremely  proud  of  her  numer 
ous  toes,  that  she  assumed  great  airs  on 
account  of  them,  and  considered  herself 
wholly  exempt  from  the  ordinary  duties 
that  fell  to  the  colored  children  about  the 
place.  Her  mistress  informed  me  also 
that  the  child  was  a  terrible  nuisance, 
adding,  expressively:  "I  intend  to  break 
her  in  soon.  The  young  baboon  will  find 
there  are  other  things  to  do  than  croon 
ing  over  doves  and  taming  dirty  toads." 

I  had  gone  beyond  the  tropics  for  my 
health,  but  until  now  I  had  been  travel 
ling  so  constantly  that  I  had  obtained 
little  benefit  from  the  climate.  The  lux 
urious  spot  into  which  I  at  length  settled 
for  a  period  of  several  months  was  all 
that  my  body  and  soul  most  desired. 
This  was  "  the  Beers'  farm,"  where  I  en 
countered  Zan  Zoo  on  the  day  of  my 
arrival,  For  the  first  week  I  did  noth- 


250         Harper's  Novelettes 

ing  but  eat  my  meals,  crawl  into  the 
garden,  loll  in  my  steamer-chair,  and 
bask  in  the  sun. 

I  thought  of  Zan  occasionally,  and 
wondered  that  I  had  not  seen  her  again. 
One  morning,  when  I  had  become  strong 
enough,  I  went  to  the  river  for  my  bath. 
As  I  came  near  the  Ron  I  heard  a 
scream,  followed  by  a  wail  of  despair. 
In  an  instant  I  came  upon  Zan  Zoo, 
hands  clinched  and  face  fiery.  It  seems 
that  for  several  months  a  large  yellow- 
bellied  toad,  well  adorned  with  warts, 
had  taken  up  his  nightly  habitation  in 
Zan  Zoo's  apartment,  not  finding  it  too 
regal  for  his  plebeian  taste.  Now  Zan 
had  a  very  tender  heart  for  all  living 
creatures,  men  and  women  excepted. 
These  she  looked  upon  as  a  race  of  cruel 
giants  expressly  created  to  multiply  the 
grievances  of  innocent  folk  like  herself 
and  the  doves.  She  therefore  met  the 
friendly  approaches  of  the  toad  in  the 
warmest  manner. 

She  called  him  familiarly  "  Hopper " 
when  they  were  alone,  but  in  the  pres 
ence  of  others  invariably  prefixed  the 
proper  title — Mr.  The  day  previous  had 
witnessed  one  of  Zan's  fasts.  She  awoke 
in  the  morning  cross  in  proportion  to  the 
emptiness  of  her  stomach.  Jacob,  a 


Zan  Zoo  251 

colored  boy  whom  she  detested,  came 
along  while  she  was  sitting  in  the  door 
way  talking  to  Hopper.  Jacob  was 
enough  Hottentot  to  compel  a  growth  of 
hair  in  tufts  interspersed  with  bare 
patches  over  his  head.  Zan  never  saw 
Jacob  without  a  desire  arising  within 
her  to  "  sass  him." 

"Ja-cob,  Ja-cob,"  she  sang  out  with 
aggravating  inflection,  making  the  first 
syllable  abnormally  long,  and  cutting  the 
latter  short  with  a  click  which  she  knew 
to  be  particularly  annoying — "  Ja-cob, 
why  don't  you  sow  seed  in  your  patches  ?" 

Jacob  made  no  reply,  but  sauntered  a 
little  nearer,  picking  up  a  stick  as  he 
came. 

This  move  was  received  with  a  con 
temptuous  snort  from  Zan  Zoo.  "Ach, 
you  turnip-head!  You  think  I  am  afraid 
of  you?"  and  she  displayed  her  choicest 
reserves  in  a  series  of  diabolical  faces 
intended  to  strike  terror  to  the  cowardly 
heart  of  Jacob. 

The  stick  made  a  twirl,  but  it  did  not 
fall  on  Zan.  'Twas  aimed  at  poor  Hop 
per,  who  sat  there  with  blinking  eyes 
and  palpitating  throat,  watching  the  al 
tercation.  One  dexterous  turn  following 
the  blow  landed  the  unfortunate  Hopper 
some  yards  distant.  Then  came  the 


252  Harper's  Novelettes 

scream  I  had  heard.  Zan  made  a  rush 
to  the  rescue.  Her  anger  was  swallowed 
up  in  her  fears  for  the  injury  done  to  her 
pet. 

"It's  Hopper!  it's  Hopper!"  she  cried. 
"  Don't  touch  him — please,  don't !"  and 
she  cowered  over  the  half -dead  reptile. 

It  was  too  delightful  to  Jacob  to  find 
his  tormentor  so  completely  and  unex 
pectedly  in  his  power.  He  flourished  his 
stick  threateningly.  She  was  crying  pit- 
eously  now,  and  begging. 

"  He  never  hurt  you.  He  couldn't  hurt 
you — Hopper  couldn't.  He  liked  me;  he 
liked  me  so,  he  always  came.  I  won't 
ever  make  faces  at  you  again — truly  I 
won't." 

The  stick  came  down,  but  it  fell  on 
Zan's  hands,  held  protectingly  over  the 
gasping  Hopper. 

"  You  wicked  boy !  you're  a  coward — a 
coward !  You  wouldn't  dare  touch  him, 
only  he  can't  do  anything.  The  snakes 
will  bite  you  now."  And  she  blazed  her 
great  eyes  wrathfully  upon  him  as 
though  she  had  a  legion  of  serpents  ready 
to  do  her  bidding.  I  came  upon  them  in 
time  to  send  Jacob  skulking  about  his 
work,  and  to  save  Hopper  from  his  death 
agonies  for  the  time  being. 

Though  I  never  had  been  aware  of  any 


Zan  Zoo  253 

ardent  personal  attachment  myself  for 
toads  previously  to  this  event,  my  heart 
went  out  at  once  toward  Mr.  H.  and  his 
brave  little  defender.  I  comforted  her 
as  well  as  I  might — suggesting  that  Mr. 
II.  was  not  of  an  overly  sensitive  organi 
zation,  and  that  if  we  put  him  in  the 
ground  for  a  season  to  mend  himself  he 
would  come  out  all  right.  But  she  stern 
ly  refused  to  have  him  "  buried  alive," 
as  she  called  it.  She  wrapped  him  up  in 
a  bit  of  her  ragged  dress  and  bore  him 
off.  I  never  learned  the  exact  course  of 
treatment  he  underwent;  doubtless  it 
was  to  his  own  satisfaction,  for  I  ob 
served  him  blinking  away  by  Zan's  steps 
not  more  than  a  week  later,  apparently 
in  his  normal  condition.  I  found  after 
ward  that  this  incident  had  advanced  me 
considerably  in  Zan's  good  graces.  She 
turned  up  somewhere  in  my  wandering 
nearly  every  day,  till  at  length  the  hours 
became  few  when  she  was  not  by  my  side 
or  dogging  my  footsteps  or  bounding  be 
fore  me  over  the  veld.  She  took  me  to 
all  of  her  favorite  haunts — the  mount, 
the  waterfall,  the  cave,  and  most  of  all  to 
the  field  below  the  garden.  Zan  and 
they  are  curiously  interwoven  in  my 
memory.  There  is  a  rush  of  vivid  color 
ing  before  my  eyes — intense  impressions, 


254          Harper's  Novelettes 

like  those  made  by  a  flash  of  lightning 
— then  there  emerges  out  of  the  scene 
brought  before  me  the  dark  childish  face 
of  Zan,  with  intent  big  eyes  turning 
from  me  to  her  darling  resorts  and  back 
to  me  again,  as  if  to  see  whether  she  had 
desecrated  the  spot  by  bringing  me  there. 
I  have  not  even  to  close  my  eyes  to  see 
the  most  trifling  objects  that  surrounded 
us.  At  every  step  there  is  a  little  change ; 
the  change  becomes  greater,  till  at  last — 
But  I  am  thinking  now  of  the  time  she 
first  took  me  up  the  mount.  Our  way 
lies  through  the  dusty  oak-shaded  street, 
close  bordered  by  the  stoops  of  the  low 
thatched  houses.  People  are  coming  out 
to  enjoy  the  cool  breeze  which  springs 
up  at  the  close  of  a  long  hot  day.  A 
beautiful  Malay  in  purple  gown  and  yel 
low  turban  passes  us,  carrying  a  basket 
on  her  head.  She  is  proud  of  her  beauty, 
of  her  full  stiff  skirts,  and  of  the  way  she 
carries  her  head.  A  little  farther,  and 
we  meet  a  line  of  bullocks.  There  are 
twenty  of  them.  They  are  drawing  a  lit 
tle  wagon  loaded  with  wood.  A  very 
small  Cafire  boy  runs  before  the  cattle, 
and  attends  their  steps.  A  white  man 
sits  on  the  load,  and  flourishes  a  long 
whip.  Sometimes  it  hits  the  cattle  and 
sometimes  the  boy.  The  air  is  drowsy 


Zan  Zoo  255 

still,  in  spite  of  the  freshening  breeze. 
It  seems  to  lull  your  consciousness  as  an 
individual,  and  you  exist  only  as  a  part 
of  a  picture.  It  is  made  up  of  the  narrow 
red  street,  the  dusty  oaks,  the  wide 
stoops,  the  thatched  houses,  the  big- 
horned  cattle,  the  smart  Malay.  We 
turn  from  the  street  and  go  up  the  west 
ern  slope.  We  restrain  all  desire  to  look 
back,  till  we  have  climbed  a  fourth  of 
the  steep  ascent.  It  is  now  that  we 
wholly  lose  sight  of  our  old-time  com 
panion  self.  He  heaves  one  sigh  and 
departs.  A  new  self  takes  his  place.  His 
vision  is  clearer,  his  hearing  finer,  than 
his  who  has  left.  But  that  is  not  all;  he 
possesses  a  sixth  sense,  which  perceives 
that  subtle  something  in  nature  speaking 
plainer  than  words  to  those  who  have 
ears  to  hear. 

At  first,  as  we  look,  there  is  a  blank 
moment  of  receptivity.  Then  we  grad 
ually  grasp  the  details  here  and  there  in 
the  wide  sweep  of  earth  lying  before  us. 
We  see  that  the  huts  to  the  south  are 
very  distant,  so  that  their  outlines  are 
softly  traced  in  the  sky.  We  notice  the 
town  and  river  away  beneath  us. 

We  feel  the  fresh  strong  breeze  coming 
in  from  the  sea.  We  realize  that  the  blue 

has  gone  from  the  air.     The  mountains 
17 


2S6  Harper's  Novelettes 

are  quivering  with  strange  lights  and 
colors  —  purple,  amethyst,  ruby.  They 
take  curious  shapes  against  the  sky. 
Range  upon  range  appears  delicately 
outlined,  one  behind  another,  one  spring 
ing  out  of  another — a  wilderness  of  va 
rying  curves.  Zan  feels  my  interest,  and 
does  not  speak  for  a  long  time;  then  she 
asks, 

"Is  it  not  good  to  be  here?" 

I  tell  her  that  it  is  "very  good,"  and 
she  continues, 

"You  don't  know  much  about  it,  do 
you — what  made  it,  and  all  that?" 

I  meekly  respond,  "I  supposed  I  did," 
not  knowing  whether  she  purposed  test 
ing  my  knowledge  of  the  Bible  or  zool 
ogy. 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment  with  a 
challenging  expression  before  beginning 
her  examination:  "Do  you  know  about 
that  big  giant  over  there  lying  on  his 
back?  Do  you  know  who  killed  him, 
and  why  he  was  turned  to  stone?  Do 
you  know  why  those  three  big  elephants 
on  the  top  of  Klipperstein  can't  move? 
Acht  I  think  you  could  say  if  you  did." 
And  she  considered  my  countenace  with 
the  air  of  having  discovered  a  base  pre 
tender. 

I  hastily  acknowledged  my  utter  igno- 


Zan  Zoo  257 

ranee,  and  begged  enlightenment  with 
such  humility  that  she  not  only  was  mol 
lified,  but  regaled  me  with  tales  on  our 
homeward  walk  which,  it  was  easy  to  see, 
increased  in  marvel  on  every  delivery. 

One  day  I  came  into  the  garden,  and 
found  the  mountains  near  and  far  trans 
formed.  They  simply  outlined  an  ex 
panse  of  purest  blue,  varying  from  the 
deepest  dye  of  those  close  at  hand  to  the 
blue-white  of  those  in  the  distance.  The 
sky,  as  usual,  was  an  unbroken  expanse 
of  blue,  paling  toward  the  horizon, — blue, 
blue,  everything  seemed  heaven  -  bound 
with  it.  Suddenly  my  eye  was  attracted 
to  a  patch  of  liveliest  green  a  few  feet 
from  me.  Pretty,  I  thought,  and  looked 
again  toward  the  mountains.  But  some 
how  that  green  intruded  once  more.  This 
time  I  noticed  'twas  a  setting  for  a  host 
of  diamonds  daintily  suspended  before 
the  gaze  of  the  admiring  sun.  They 
trembled  and  sparkled  and  turned  them 
selves  as  though  impelled  by  a  feminine 
vanity.  Again  I  turned  away;  but  now 
my  mind  was  so  filled  with  green  that  it 
could  not  take  in  blue.  I  lay  back  in  my 
chair,  and  gave  myself  up  to  the  charm 
of  the  little  patch  before  me.  I  found 
that  some  of  the  diamonds  were  rainbow- 
encircled,  others  burned  with  a  steady 


258  Harper's  Novelettes 

flame  like  a  candle,  and  others  were  ver 
itable  twinkling  stars.  More  than  this, 
I  learned  that  all  loved  the*  fair  green 
blades  that  held  them,  and  many  more 
secrets  which  I  will  not  reveal.  Zan  was 
standing  by  my  side. 

"Isn't  it  blue?"  she  asks. 

"Yes;  but  then  there  is  the  green,"  I 
say. 

"  But  the  green  is  always,  and  the  blue 
isn't,"  she  replies,  and  adds ;  "  I  like  the 
green  to  lie  on  and  the  blue  to  look  into. 
How  close  it  comes  to-day,  the  blue !  One 
has  to  look  so  far  mostly." 

"  I  have  been  learning  secrets,  Zan.  I 
don't  think  you  can  find  them  out,"  I 
suggest,  teasingly.  Zan  doesn't  hear  me. 

"  It  is  most  time,"  she  says,  presently. 

"  Time  for  what  ?"  I  ask. 

"I  thought  you  knew,"  she  says.  "If 
you  keep  still,  you  will  see." 

In  a  few  minutes  one  little  hand  was 
pulling  my  trousers,  and  the  other  was 
pointing  to  a  bit  of  dirt,  a  miniature 
volcano,  only  in  place  of  the  fire  and 
smoke  came  a  mole's  snout,  then  the  rest 
of  Mr.  Mole;  just  an  instant,  and  he  was 
under  his  volcano  again.  Zan  hopped 
about  like  mad. 

"Did  you  not  see?"  she  says.  "Ach, 
it  was  grand!  Did  you  see  him  take  it? 


Zan  Zoo  259 

Now  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  found  out 
to  know  when  he  will  come  out,  and  I 
make  a  nice  dinner  of  things  that  he 
likes.  Ach!  isn't  it  fine  that  he  takes?" 

By  this  time  Zan  and  I  were  fast 
friends,  and  it  was  with  regret  that  I 
left  the  odd  little  African  when  I  took 
my  leave  of  the  Beers  to  make  a  trip 
up  country,  and  to  visit  many  English 
friends  whose  hospitality  I  had  not  felt 
equal  to  accepting  when  I  arrived  at  the 
colony.  My  trip  was  a  pleasant  one,  and 
all  my  invitations  had  been  gratefully 
acknowledged  in  person  except  one  from 
a  young  English  doctor.  This  I  had  re 
served  till  the  last,  as  it  was  only  a  few 
miles  from  the  Beers'  farm,  and  was  a 
convenient  point  at  which  to  end  my 
South  African  sojourn;  but  before  go 
ing  there  I  intended  spending  a  few 
days  with  the  Beers  again,  partly  out  of 
courtesy  to  them,  and  partly,  I  must  ac 
knowledge,  from  a  lingering  inclination 
to  take  another  walk  with  my  dark  little 
protegee. 

Several  months  had  passed  since  I  was 
at  the  Beers',  and  as  I  approached  I 
noted  the  changes  of  season  about  the 
place,  let  my  eyes  follow  the  familiar 
line  of  the  cactus  hedge,  saw  a  dove  or 


260  Harper's  Novelettes 

two  wheeling  in  the  air,  and  thought 
with  a  smile  of  Zan. 

The  day  I  arrived  I  did  not  see  Zan, 
and  for  some  reason  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  ask  after  her.  Things  did  not 
seem  the  same  as  when  I  left.  'Twas  not 
easy  to  talk.  They  all  appeared  to  be 
thinking  of  something  in  which  I  had  no 
part.  Mrs.  Beer  was  particularly  silent, 
and  when  I  proposed  going  the  next  day, 
she  made  no  objection.  When  I  took  my 
leave,  Mr.  Beer  muttered  some  unintelli 
gible  words,  from  which  I  gathered  the 
idea  that  they  were  in  trouble.  I  learn 
ed  all  about  it  afterward  from  my  Eng 
lish  friend  the  doctor,  and  later  still 
from  Zan  herself. 

It  all  came  out  of  the  difficulty  of  get 
ting  Zan  "broken  in."  It  seems  that 
when  the  day  came  on  which  she  was  to 
begin  work  in  the  house,  she  was  found 
to  be  missing.  Jacob  was  sent  to  hunt 
her  up.  He  made  a  pleasant  morning  of 
it  sitting  by  the  river-bank,  or  occasion 
ally  skirmishing  among  the  fruit-trees; 
but  toward  noon  he  presented  himself  at 
the  kitchen  door  with  a  dolorous  counte 
nance,  and  the  information  that  Zan 
must  "hev  tuk  to  the  mountings,  for 
there  wasn't  hide  nor  hair  of  her  in  the 
valley." 


Zan  Zoo  261 

In  the  mean  time  she  had  been  enjoy 
ing  life  even  more  than  Jacob.  A  blue, 
blue  sky;  a  field  of  tasselled  mealies;  a 
bright  green  sugar-bird  with  two  long 
tail  feathers;  a  dirty,  dirty  Caffre  girl  in 
a  dirty,  dirty  apron  —  and  you  see  Zan 
and  all  her  surroundings.  At  first  she 
was  angry  and  defiant,  and  squatted 
down  among  the  mealie  stalks  with  a  big 
scowl  and  wrathful  eyes.  "  Go  into  the 
kitchen  and  work?"  Indeed  she  would 
not.  They  might  give  her  something 
outdoors  to  do.  They  just  wanted  to 
plague  her,  she  knew.  She  could  see 
quite  plain.  But  that  sort  of  thing 
couldn't  last  long.  There  was  no  one 
there  to  be  angry  with.  Before  long  she 
had  forgotten  that  she  was  wanted  in  the 
house,  and  was  lying  flat  on  her  back 
looking  up  into  the  blue.  Then  came  the 
green  sugar-bird,  flying  among  the  yel 
low  stalks. 

She  lay  still,  very  still.  Perhaps  he 
would  come  to  her  this  time ;  he  had  been 
so  near  it  once.  She  wanted  to  say  "  Sss- 
weet-je  "  to  him,  but  she  knew  that  vexed 
him,  and  she  feared  he  might  fly  away 
if  she  did.  So  she  never  moved  or  made 
a  sound,  not  the  least  bit.  "  Sweet je " 
was  right  over  her  head  now,  and  Zan's 
great  black  eyes  were  wide  open  with 


262  Harper's  Novelettes 

hope  and  expectation.  He  balanced  him 
self  for  an  instant  on  a  stalk,  gracefully 
drooped  his  long  feathers,  raised  his 
wings,  and  sailed  away. 

But,  love  and  laughter!  what  happi 
ness  !  "  Sss-weet-je,  heartje-sweetje,"  call 
ed  the  little  Caff  re  girl.  For  did  he  not 
make  a  superb  sweep  downward,  and 
didn't  those  long  drooping  feathers  brush 
her  very  face? 

Even  he  —  the  grand,  the  gloriously 
beautiful  one,  so  proud,  so  dainty,  so  be 
witching,  he  stoops  and  caresses  .her. 
She  feels  it  all,  and  she  is  brimful  of  joy. 
She  rollicks  around  in  high  glee  for  a 
long  time.  If  Jacob  had  been  very  dili 
gent  in  his  search,  'twould  have  been  easy 
to  find  her  then;  but  Jacolb  is  in  the 
plantain-bush,  with  his  teeth  in  the  mid 
dle  of  a  banana,  and  all  other  sights  and 
sounds  were  shut  out  in  the  delight  of 
his  own  eating.  Zan  makes  a  charming 
plan  in  her  wise  little  head.  She  knows 
where  the  sugar  flowers  grow  that  sweetje 
likes  so  well  to  run  his  bill  in  and  get 
the  syrup  from.  They  are  a  long  way 
off;  Zan  never  thinks  of  that.  When 
night  comes,  Zan  is  just  crawling  home, 
with  her  arms  full  of  sugar-bush  flowers. 

The  next  morning  she  is  up  and  away 
before  any  one  has  time  to  call  her.  She 


Zan  Zoo  263 

takes  the  flowers  along  with  her.  One 
could  have  seen  about  sunrise  a  thin  bit 
of  blue  smoke  coming  up  from  a  corner 
of  the  mealie  field.  'Twas  where  Zan 
was  roasting  the  ears  of  corn  for  her 
breakfast.  A  few  hours  later  she  was 
lying  in  the  same  place  as  yesterday. 
She  was  nearly  covered  with  the  dewy 
sugar  blossoms.  There  were  anxious 
eyes  and  a  palpitating  heart  under  those 
branches. 

"Will  he  come,  and  will  he  stay?" 
she  is  thinking.  One  hour,  two  hours, 
three  hours,  go  by.  The  patient  little 
waiter  is  just  beginning  to  be  a  little  bit 
discouraged,  is  beginning  to  fear  the 
flowers  will  wilt,  when  whir,  whir,  and 
settling  himself  in  the  midst  of  them  is 
Mr.  Greencoat,  as  gay  and  cavalier  as 
yesterday.  He  runs  his  slender  beak 
daintily  into  the  flower  that  lies  in  Zan's 
very  hand.  Now  he  is  on  her  head,  now 
her  breast.  Her  heart  is  full.  It  is  the 
happiest  moment  of  her  life.  A  quick 
report  cuts  the  still  air.  It  is  from,  a 
whip  that  falls  on  child  and  flowers.  It 
sends  the  pretty  bird  away  in  a  long 
flight  of  terror.  Zan  springs  to  her  feet 
without  a  sound.  Her  eyes  are  blazing. 
The  little  lithe  figure  quivers.  Before 
her  stands  the  loutish  form  of  Duro. 


264  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Ach,  you  Caffre  cur!  I've  tracked 
you  at  last,"  he  says,  in  his  thick 
tones. 

Zan  looks  down,  and  plainly  sees  the 
print  of  her  six-toed  feet  in  the  dew-wet 
earth. 

Poor  Zan's  short-lived  rapture  had  to 
be  paid  for  sadly  enough.  She  was  made 
to  work,  and  the  making  was  a  sorry  proc 
ess  for  both  child  and  mistress.  Zan 
nursed  her  wrath,  sulked,  and  usually 
contrived  to  occasion  more  trouble  dur 
ing  the  day  than  she  rendered  assistance. 
The  mistress  grew  more  determined.  No 
black  girl  should  defy  her.  Whippings 
became  frequent,  and  at  every  whipping 
Zan  grew  sulkier  and  the  mistress 
angrier. 

The  child  was  kept  in  the  house  from 
the  first  stirring  in  the  morning  till  the 
evening  work  was  over;  not  so  much  be 
cause  her  services  were  useful  as  to 
"  break  her  in."  And  the  angry  little 
girl,  sore  and  tired,  would  lie  awake  and 
cry  to  think  of  her  neglected  doves,  of 
Hopper,  of  the  sugar-bird  whose  love  was 
so  nearly  within  her  reach.  It  seemed  so 
dreadful  that  they  should  be  thinking 
she  did  not  care  for  them  any  more. 
Once  the  thought  came  to  her,  "Perhaps 
they  are  forgetting  me  " ;  then  the  little 


Zan  Zoo  265 

hands  clasped  over  the  quivering  mouth 
to  keep  back  the  sobs. 

A  day  came  when  she  could  endure  the 
suspense  no  longer.  She  slipped  off  her 
perch  in  the  kitchen  (where  she  was 
paring  fruit)  the  first  moment  she  was 
left  alone,  and  scurried  down  behind  the 
cactus  hedge.  She  squatted  there,  si 
lently  listening  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
scooted  for  the  grove  of  firs.  Oh,  how 
nice  it  was !  What  should  she  visit  first  ? 
She  would  like  a  look  at  "  Spring-bokie,''' 
but  she  was  sure  the  boys  would  feed 
him,  and  be  good  to  him  too ;  he  was  such 
a  darling,  they  could  not  help  it.  And 
the  doves?  Yes,  she  must  see  the  doves. 
But  Hopper?  Nobody  liked  Hopper. 
She  would  see  to  him  first.  He  did  get 
so  lonely.  He  never  would  have  come 
to  her  in  the  night — always  in  the  night, 
when  nobody  was  about — if  he  had  not 
been  very  lonely.  There  he  sits  behind 
the  row,  catching  flies  in  the  most  com 
posed  and  natural  manner.  Zan's  face 
is  bright  with  delight.  Hopper  must  ap 
preciate  it,  for  he  stops  in  his  fascina 
ting  pastime,  gives  two  or  three  fine  hops, 
does  a  good  deal  of  swallowing  and  palpi 
tating,  and  in  all  ways  responds  as  well 
as  a  toad  can  do  to  Zan's  demonstrations. 
She  is  quite  satisfied  with  her  welcome. 


a66  Harper's  Novelettes 

She  picks  him  up  and  nestles  him  awhile, 
lays  down  a  nice  pile  of  crumbs  out  of 
the  store  she  has  been  saving  for  the 
doves,  pulls  a  few  soft  grasses  and  ar 
ranges  a  bed  for  him  in  a  comfortable 
spot,  then  shakes  hands  with  him  and 
tears  herself  away.  "  Ooo-ooh,  oo-ooh !" 
softly,  musically,  she  calls.  "  Ooo-ooh, 
oo-ooh!"  in  the  grove  of  firs.  Ooo-ooh, 
oo-ooh !"  among  the  vines.  "  Ooo-ooh !" 
under  the  bamboos.  And  now  there  is  a 
gentle  flutter  of  wings,  a  downward  mo 
tion,  and  half  a  dozen  doves  are  lighted 
on  Zan  Zoo — on  her  outstretched  arms, 
on  her  shoulders,  on  her  head.  There  is 
a  deal  of  smiling,  and  talking,  and  coo 
ing,  and  love-making,  and  some  vanity 
and  display,  to  show  Zan  how  glad  they 
are  to  see  her,  and  how  extremely  nice 
they  are  looking.  She  reproves  one  here 
and  there  whose  manners  she  thinks  a 
little  forward,  but  shows  no  great  par 
tiality  to  any  one.  Each  gets  a  good  word 
in  turn. 

Now  comes  the  distribution  of  crumbs. 
She  has  a  big  supply.  The  excitement  is 
great.  Zan  is  very  happy.  Her  friends 
have  not  forgotten  her.  She  thinks  she 
will  be  good  now.  Perhaps  if  she  is  very 
good,  they  won't  mind  her  running  away 
for  a  little  bit  every  day.  She  leaves  the 


Zan  Zoo  267 

doves  eating,  and  goes  back  to  her  work. 
Everything  is  as  she  left  it.  No  one 
seems  to  have  noticed  her  absence.  How 
glad  she  is  that  she  went!  She  quite 
makes  up  her  mind  to  try  it  again.  She 
is  respectful  and  well-behaved  all  the 
afternoon. 

Jacob  says,  "  What  you  s'pose  ails  Zan 
that  she  don't  prank  it  ?"  He  winks 
knowingly  to  the  cook,  as  if  he  alone 
could  divine  the  hidden  meaning  of  such 
unlooked-for  virtue.  Jacob  is  sent  to 
pick  figs  for  the  supper  table.  He  comes 
back  with  a  long  face  and  says,  "  No  figs, 
missus,  'cept  dese,"  and  displays  three 
imperfect  ones.  He  looks  at  Zan,  with  a 
malicious  gleam  in  his  eyes,  adding, 
"P'rhaps  Zan  thought  she'd  pick  'em." 

Mistress  Beer  was  not  slow  to  follow 
up  the  idea.  She  had  spent  the  afternoon 
in  concocting  a  suitable  plan  for  punish 
ing  Zan's  absence  from  the  kitchen.  Now 
it  appeared  all  unworthy  of  the  enormi 
ties  suggested  by  Jacob's  intimation. 

"  Go  inside,"  she  said  to  Zan,  in  a  tone 
that  had  a  forbidding  quaver  to  it.  Then, 
to  Jacob,  "  How  do  you  know  Zan  took  ?" 

"If  missus  '11  come  with,  I'll  show," 
he  answered,  with  alacrity. 

Madame  Beer  returned,  strong  circum 
stantial  evidence  added  to  her  previous 


268  Harper's  Novelettes 

conviction.  There  were  certainly  traces 
of  the  superfluous  toe  in  the  indistinct 
footprints  about  the  fig-trees.  She  went 
in  to  Zan.  In  the  scene  which  followed, 
she  must  have  been  unconscious  of  the 
lengths  to  which  she  went.  Her  temper 
had  mastered  her.  The  child's  wee  bit 
of  covering  was  removed ;  lash  after  lash 
fell  on  the  tender  quivering  flesh.  Once, 
Zan's  clear  voice  rang  out,  "  I  didn't 
touch  them  figs;"  but  the  denial  seemed 
only  to  infuriate  the  outraged  mistress. 
At  last,  when  her  strength  was  spent  and 
her  passion  had  ebbed,  she  saw  Zan  lying 
unconscious  on  the  floor.  The  flesh  on 
her  back  was  in  ridges;  here  and  there 
the  blood  had  come  to  the  surface.  In 
spite  of  the  pallor  in  Zan's  face,  Mrs. 
Beer  convinced  herself  that  the  child 
was  pretending.  She  thought  fit,  how 
ever,  to  cover  the  child's  back  with  the 
bit  of  apron  again  before  she  called  Mr. 
Beer  to  get  her  out  of  the  way.  Zan  was 
laid  in  the  room  of  one  of  the  house- 
servants,  who  was  told  that  she  could 
sleep  somewhere  else,  as  Zan  was  shut  in 
there  for  a  punishment.  Mrs.  Beer's  sub 
sequent  conduct  was  the  occasion  of 
much  hot  discussion  amongst  her  friends 
and  enemies  for  some  months.  The  doc 
tor  would  hear  to  nothing  but  the  worst 


Zan  Zoo  269 

possible  construction  of  the  case.  I  can 
not  pretend  to  account  for  the  apparently 
premeditated  cruelty  in  that  which  fol 
lows,  but  I  judge  Mrs.  B.  as  leniently 
as  possible.  Zan  did  not  come  to  her 
senses.  Now,  whether  Mrs.  Beer  was  fear 
ful  that  she  might  not  revive  by  ordi 
nary  means,  or  whether  she  desired  to 
obliterate  the  marks  of  her  own  self-for- 
getfulness  on  the  child,  or  whether,  as 
the  doctor  declared,  she  did  it  in  wanton 
cruelty,  to  make  the  flesh  more  suscep 
tible  to  another  whipping,  I  do  not  know 
(I  cannot  believe  it  was  the  last) ;  but 
whatever  her  motive,  the  course  she  pur 
sued  was  wholly  unfortunate  for  the 
credit  due  to  humanity.  She  covered  the 
girl's  back  with  mustard  poultices.  Zan 
revived;  but  the  irritant  had  accom 
plished  its  work  so  effectively  that 
'twas  to  an  agony  of  torment.  The 
room  was  hot,  close,  and  filthy.  She 
begged  to  go  outdoors.  "  The  bed  makes 
my  back  burn,"  she  said.  She  thought  if 
she  could  lie  on  the  cool  earth  and  get  a 
whiff  of  the  cool  air  she  would  be  quite  well. 

Mrs.  Beer  moved  the  whip  slightly  that 
she  held  in  her  hand  and  whenever  she  en 
tered  the  door, '  and  said,  "  Stay  where 
you  are." 

Zan   remained    there   the   whole    day. 


270  Harper's  Novelettes 

When  night  came,  she  could  not  sleep. 
She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
'Twas  clear  and  bright.  The  stars  look 
ed  so  friendly;  the  air  was  cool  and  en 
ticing.  She  knew  where  there  was  a 
delicious  spot  to  lie  on.  It  wouldn't  be 
very  hard  to  get  out  of  the  window,  and 
she  could  get  back  again  before  daylight. 
How  lame  the  lithe  active  limbs  were! 
She  could  hardly  crawl  through,  and 
usually  she  would  have  done  it  with  a 
bound.  Once  out,  she  forgot  her  pain 
in  the  delight  of  being  free  again.  She 
managed  to  get  to  her  favorite  spot. 
There  she  lay  looking  up  at  the  tender 
luminous  stars  looking  down  so  kindly 
upon  her.  She  smiled,  and  drew  a  long 
breath  of  satisfaction.  She  could  hear 
a  hop,  hop,  close  by.  A  cool,  such  a  cool, 
little  body  touched  her.  It  must  be  Hop 
per.  He  kept  close  to  her.  How  nicely 
the  breeze  cooled  her  burns !  "  The  frogs 
are  having  a  grand  time,"  she  thought, 
as  their  mad  croaking  came  to  her  from 
a  neighboring  sloot.  "How  long  it's 
been  since  I  was  by  them!  I  hope  the 
boys  don't  throw  them  with  stones  any 
more."  Then  she  heard  the  frogs  no 
longer.  The  breeze  seemed  to  be  closing 
her  eyelids.  Earth's  loving  arms  nestled 
the  forlorn  little  creature  while  she  slept. 


Zan  Zoo  271 

Dr.  Clare,  my  English  friend,  told  me 
that  on  one  hot  morning,  on  his  way  to 
a  farm-house  near  the  foot  of  the  moun 
tain,  he  saw  a  pretty  Caffre  child  lying 
apparently  unconscious  by  the  roadside. 
On  picking  her  up,  he  found  that  her  bit 
of  clothing  stuck  to  her  back  as  if  glued. 
The  flesh  proved  to  be  terribly  lacerated. 
He  took  the  little  creature  home  and 
doctored  her.  When  she  began  to  recover 
he  learned  from  her  that  she  was  called 
Zan  Zoo,  and  belonged  to  the  Beer's 
farm.  He  took  the  matter  to  the  law 
courts.  There  he  carried  everything  be 
fore  him  with  a  high  hand.  The  Beers 
were  forced  to  pay  a  fine  of  $2500  or  see 
Mrs.  Beer  lodged  in  jail.  The  fine  was 
paid.  The  doctor  gave  the  money  into 
my  charge,  to  be  used  for  the  education 
of  little  Zan.  Somehow  it  was  generally 
understood  by  us  all  that  Zan  was  my 
protegee,  and  would  accompany  me 
home. 

Zan  turned  toward  me  in  a  sweetly 
dependent  way.  The  wild  little  thing 
had  never  depended  on  any  one  before, 
but  now  the  heart  seemed  to  be  gone  out 
of  life  for  her.  She  seemed  to  be  very 
glad  to  go  away  with  me,  yet  I  could  not 
arouse  much  interest  in  her  over  the  new 
life  we  were  to  enter.  The  northern 

18 


272  Harper's  Novelettes 

lands,  where  the  great  world  lived,  the 
vast  snow-fields,  the  green  fields,  the  big 
ocean — these  were  all  blank  leaves  to  her. 
She  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  that 
told  of  other  thoughts — were  they  of  her 
own  dear  dull  veld,  of  the  spring-bokie, 
of  the  doves,  and  Mr.  Hopper? — but  still 
she  always  said,  "  Yes,  I  want  to  go 
with." 

The  day  before  we  set  sail  was  Sun 
day.  Zan  spent  it  in  the  garden  down  by 
the  river. 

The  air  was  pure  and  fresh;  it  turned 
the  leaves  of  the  tall  powdered  poplars 
this  way  and  that,  making  a  shimmer  of 
silver  and  green;  it  fanned  the  cheek 
softly;  it  was  cold  and  murmurous;  it 
had  blown  over  the  distant  firs,  and  came 
laden  with  the  echoes  of  their  slumber 
ous  melodies. 

"Ah!"  she  thought,  as  she  looked 
through  the  green  oaks  and  pale  poplars 
to  the  clear  blue  sky  beyond,  "  if  it  will 
only  speak  to  me;  if  it  will  only  tell  me 
something — something  that  I  can  always 
keep!" 

There  was  a  colony  of  finches  that  had 
hung  their  odd  township  of  round  nests 
gracefully  and  warily  over  the  running 
stream  on  overhanging  branches,  making 
it  practically  inaccessible  to  enemies,  and 


Zan  Zoo  273 

the  bright  yellow  creatures,  in  happy  de 
light  at  their  security,  were  twittering 
about  with  the  prettiest  ease  and  free 
dom.  Besides,  there  was  the  coo  of  a 
pair  of  turtle-doves  not  far  away,  and 
now  and  then  the  laughing  sweetness  of 
what  would  have  been  a  thrush  in  a 
northern  clime;  the  river  itself,  declin 
ing  over  its  stony  bed,  completed  the 
harmony.  No  wonder  that,  with  her 
senses  assailed  by  this  witching  melody 
of  birds,  brook,  and  wind,  and  the  vision 
of  varying,  charming  colors  of  the  open 
ing  springtime  against  the  white-barred 
blue,  there  was  intensified  in  her  a  long 
ing  for  a  glimpse  of  what  was  above  and 
beyond  and  yet  within  it  all.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears  that  had  not  force  to 
fall.  She  quivered  in  trembling  anx 
iety. 

Zan  remained  curled  up  there  on  the 
bench  till  daylight  was  wholly  gone.  She 
came  reluctantly  when  I  went  out  to 
fetch  her.  I  think  she  would  have  much 
preferred  remaining  there  all  night. 
When  she  came  down  the  next  morning, 
she  was  in  perfect  readiness  for  our  jour 
ney.  I  was  not  in  the  least  satisfied  with 
the  respectability  of  her  appearance.  She 
looked  extremely  proper  in  the  dark  blue 
gown  and  little  round  hat.  The  long 


274  Harper's  Novelettes 

braid  of  straight  black  hair  was  all  that 
it  should  be.  The  doctor  was  ecstatic, 
declaring  she  was  as  neat  as  wax,  and  as 
pretty  as  a  picture. 

"Neat  and  pretty!"  Yes,  one  could 
hardly  deny  that;  but  Zan  Zoo,  the  wild 
Caffre  girl  who  had  guided  me  to  the 
waterfall,  who  whistled  to  the  birds  and 
talked  with  the  mountains,  she  was  not 
there.  A  wide-eyed,  wondering,  docile 
creature  stood  in  her  place,  and  looked 
timidly  around  the  great  prison  of  civili 
zation  she  had  entered.  She  seemed  to 
me  to  be  looking  back  with  hungry  long 
ing  to  the  wild  freedom  she  had  known. 

It  could  not  be  helped.  The  great  pro 
cession  had  swept  her  onward.  The  step 
backward  could  never  be  taken.  But 
what  would  I  not  have  given  to  have 
kept  her  as  she  was  when  I  first  knew 
her?  Was  she  never  again  to  have  the 
sweet  fellowship  of  her  darling  earth? 
Would  the  birds  and  the  bees  and  the 
flowers  disown  her?  Should  I  come  to 
see  her  think  of  her  clothes,  and  shrink 
from  the  earth  that  had  loved  her? 

On  shipboard  Zan's  great  delight  was 
to  be  taken  to  the  forecastle,  and  there 
to  stand  for  hours  on  the  very  point  of 
the  prow,  one  arm  round  the  flag-staff, 
looking,  with  glowing  eyes  and  brighten- 


Zan  Zoo  275 

ing  face,  over  the  wide  waste  of  waters. 
Her  eyes  would  blaze  when  the  prow 
dipped  deep;  and  the  old  ringing  laugh 
would  come  back  to  me  above  the  roar, 
as  we  rose  up  again  to  the  top  of  the 
wave.  But  her  highest  glee  was  when  a 
big  sea  drenched  us.  After  that  she 
would  be  happy  for  a  whole  day.  At  first 
I  was  in  terror  lest  she  should  fall  from 
the  precarious  position  she  took  with 
such  assurance,  and  I  would  hold  her 
clothing  with  a  nervous  grasp. 

"Why  do  you  hold?"  she  asked  me 
one  day,  as  we  were  making  our  way  back 
to  the  deck. 

"But  if  you  should  fall?"  I  said. 

"I  shouldn't  mind;  'twouldn't  be  so 
bad."  Then,  tipping  her  head  a  little  for 
reflection,  "It  must  be  nice  down  under 
the  sea,  and  the  roar  is  so  good,"  with  a 
gleaming  smile. 

"But  do  you  think  I  would  want  to 
lose  you?"  I  asked. 

She  did  not  answer  except  by  an  odd 
little  stare  that  spoke  of  an  incredulity 
still  as  to  the  possibility  of  any  human 
being  really  caring  for  her.  Mr.  Hopper 
and  the  doves,  she  understood  that  well 
enough,  that  they  would  not  want  to  lose 
her.  But  man  or  woman?  It  was  hard 
ly  to  be  believed. 


276  Harper's  Novelettes 

Another  thing  that  she  enjoyed  was 
sitting  in  the  stern  of  the  ship,  behind 
the  wheel.  There  she  would  remain,  with 
her  head  on  the  bulwarks,  watching  the 
long  white  path  we  left  behind  us,  never 
knowing  what  was  going  on  around  her. 
And  in  the  evening,  when  the  fiery  phos 
phorescence  played  along  the  wake,  she- 
would  grow  excited,  and  I  could  see  that 
bright  fancies  were  teeming  through  her 
brain,  as  in  the  days  when  we  watched 
the  colors  on  the  mountains  together. 
There  were  other  things,  too,  that  she 
enjoyed.  The  captain  had  a  great  liking 
for  her,  and  gave  her  the  full  run  of  the 
ship.  The  boatswains  would  set  the  sail 
ors  singing,  when  they  hoisted  the  sails, 
to  please  the  child.  Everybody  had  a 
pleasant  word  for  Zan,  and  Zan  soon 
came  to  have  a  dear  little  bit  of  a  smile 
for  everybody;  farther  than  that  she 
would  not  commit  herself  except  in  mo 
ments  of  great  excitement,  as  when  we 
sighted  land,  or  a  shoal  of  porpoises  ap 
peared,  or  a  flying-fish  was  washed  on  deck. 

As  week  after  week  went  by  I  fancied 
Zan  was  pining.  Her  eyes  looked  bigger, 
and  she  did  not  seem  to  be  ready  and 
lithe  as  she  used.  By  the  time  I  had  her 
home  with  me  in  New  England  the 
change  was  quite  apparent.  She  liked  to 


Zan  Zoo  277 

keep  close  by  me,  was  quiet  and  droop 
ing.  There  was  little  of  the  eager,  ques 
tioning,  imaginative  Zan  left.  I  laid  it 
to  the  change  of  climate,  to  the  bare 
dreary  autumn  to  which  she  was  un 
used.  I  hoped  that  when  winter  was 
over  and  spring  came,  it  would  open  a 
new  life  within  her. 

I  was  unpacking  pictures  put  away  in 
boxes  previously  to  my  travels.  Zan  was 
helping  me  with  more  animation  about 
her  than  she  had  shown  since  our  arrival. 
The  great  dark  eyes  in  the  wan  face  had 
such  a  pathetic  look  it  gave  me  a  guilty 
feeling  to  encounter  them.  The  neat 
gown  and  smooth  hair,  to  which  she  was 
now  quite  accustomed,  only  heightened 
the  pathos.  I  longed  to  see  the  blazing 
eyes,  the  wicked  little  smile  over  the 
white  teeth,  the  frowzy  hair,  the  bare 
figure  with  its  scant  drapery  of  battered 
print.  I  would  have  given  half  my  life, 
as  I  met  that  startled,  hungry  glance,  to 
have  heard  again  the  liquid  note  with 
which  she  called  her  doves  about  her,  or 
the  wild  "  ss-weet-je "  with  which  she 
teased  the  sugar-birds.  I  yearned  to  take 
her  in  my  arms  and  lay  her  again  on  the 
wide-spreading  veld,  where  she  made 
friends  with  the  hare,  the  mole,  and  the 
locust,  or  looked  away  and  away  into  the 


278  Harper's  Novelettes 

wonderful  blue  while  pretty,  untaught 
fancies  possessed  her  being.  Poor,  sweet, 
wild  Zan!  The  world  had  caught  her  in 
its  great  iron  cage,  and  she  could  only 
cower  at  my  side  till  she  was  set  free 
again. 

I  put  the  different  pictures  against  the 
chairs  and  tables  as  I  took  them  out. 
Zan  had  a  question  or  remark  for  each. 
One  of  Millet's,  with  a  flock  of  sheep  and 
two  figures  in  the  foreground,  she  com 
mended  positively. 

"  That  is  very  good.  It  is  Cours  and 
Matilda.  They  went  way  round  Black 
Cap  for  the  sheep.  That  one  big  sheep  I 
called  'Baas.'  He  got  caught  on  the 
mimosa-bush  the  one  day,  and  I  got  him 
off.  He  liked  me,  Baas  did." 

There  was  an  exquisite  copy  in  sepia 
of  the  "  Upward  Madonna,"  a  Guido 
Keni.  As  I  placed  it  on  an  easel,  I  felt 
Zan's  little  hand  on  mine. 

"  Is  she  Caff  re  ?"  she  asked,  very  softly. 

Earth's  motherless  little  African!  Did 
she  feel  a  glow  of  hope  and  joy  at  the 
sight  of  those  rich  brown  tints  in  the  glo 
rious  heavenly  face?  I  felt  a  big  lump 
in  my  throat  as  I  drew  the  drooping 
form  of  the  once  irrepressible  Zan  close 
to  me  and  said: 

"It  is  'The  Mother'— the  mother  of 


Zan  Zoo  279 

the  whole  world,  yours  and  mine  too* 
Your  own  true  mother,  Zan." 

Did  she  believe  it  literally,  and  in  a 
different  sense  from  what  I  meant?  She 
asked  no  questions,  but  looked  at  it  with 
a  peculiar  softness  of  expression. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  little,  in  a 
tone  of  having  come  to  a  decision.  Then, 
"  There  are  none  so  beautiful  ?"  in  the 
old  colloquial  questioning  way  of  our 
first  acquaintance. 

And  I  responded,  "No,  not  one." 

The  child's  eyes,  which  had  not  once 
turned  from  the  Mother's  face,  slowly 
filled  with  tears.  She  drew  away  from 
me,  and  stood  with  folded  hands  directly 
before  the  picture.  I  watched  her  with 
intense  interest.  Had  the  Virgin's  beauty 
aroused  her  strange  bright  fancy?  Had 
it  carried  her  back  to  her  shadowy,  ever- 
changing  mountains,  to  her  deep  blue 
sky,  to  her  sweeping  veld,  to  her  wild 
weird  kloofs?  Did  all  that  was  brightest 
and  freest  come  back  to  her  then?  The 
time  when  she  lay  so  close  to  the  kindly 
earth  and  could  understand  every  whis 
per,  when  her  friends  were  many  and 
loving,  the  cricket  chirping  her  welcome, 
and  the  turtle-doves  cooing  her  theirs, 
when  the  beautiful  face  of  her  own  Caf- 
fre  mother  bent  o'er  her  with  one  of  its 


280  Harper's  Novelettes 

rare  loving  looks?  Or  was  it  not  just 
the  impalpable  spirit  within  that  picture 
drawing  one,  bearing  one  upward,  in 
such  waves  of  passionate  longing  as  I 
had  felt  looking  upon  it?  Whatever,  it 
had  conquered  the  child,  the  divine  up 
turned  face  in  the  glow  of  its  warm 
brown  tints.  I  could  see  the  rising  sob 
by  the  tremor  of  the  little  form.  I  quiet 
ly  went  away,  and  left  the  caged  Caffre 
bird  with  "  The  Mother." 

Day  after  day  the  snow  had  been  fall 
ing  slowly  but  steadily,  and  during  that 
time  Zan  had  scarcely  left  the  window. 
She  had  been  waiting  very  impatiently 
for  it,  had  conjured  up  weird  pictures  of 
it  in  her  imagination,  this  snow  she  had 
never  seen,  but  was  told  made  the  north 
so  different  from  her  beautiful  south. 

She  had  watched  the  earth  grow  hard 
and  cold,  had  fallen  once  and  bruised 
herself  on  a  ragged  bit  of  frozen  ground, 
and  I  saw  a  hurt  look  in  her  eyes,  and 
noticed  that  she  held  the  hand  behind 
her  as  she  came  toward  me. 

"Did  you  hurt  yourself?"  I  asked. 
"  The  ground  is  so  hard  now,  you  must 
be  careful." 

Then  I  knew  it  was  not  the  pain  of  her 
hand  that  gave  her  the  look,  but  a  deeper 


Zan  Zoo  281 

sense  of  injury  that  she  would  not  con 
fess,  for  she  answered, 

"  I  guess  'twas  just  a  stone." 

The  child  had  grown  so  near  to  me 
that  I  could  interpret  her  feelings  fre 
quently,  half  by  intuition,  and  half  by 
little  signs  that  I  had  learned  to  know 
the  hidden  meanings  of.  I  wonder  if  it 
seems  a  trifle  to  others,  this  little  inci 
dent  that  has  so  much  pathos  in  it  to 
me!  Cannot  you  put  yourself  in  this 
ignorant  Caffre  child's  place?  Your  first 
conscious  touch  is  not  the  warm  flesh  of 
a  mother,  but  the  warm  mother  earth. 
You  grasp  it,  play  with  it,  fashion  it 
into  wonders.  Your  tears  fall  on  it; 
your  tired  baby  head  rests  on  it.  It 
makes  you  lovely  flowers;  the  animals, 
your  darling  friends,  burrow  in  it,  love 
it.  And  would  you  not  love  it,  this 
mother  to  whom  you  carried  your  griefs, 
who  rested  you,  cared  for  you,  made  you 
happy,  and  would  you  not  love  its  touch, 
love  to  lie  upon  it,  breathe  upon  it,  ca 
ress  it? 

It  always  yields  to  your  touch,  re 
sponds  in  some  way  to  your  love. 
Through  babyhood,  childhood,  it  remains 
always  the  same;  'tis  now  a  part  of  your 
being  to  love  and  be  loved  by  the  earth. 
You  know  no  human  love,  no  other  touch 


282  Harper's  Novelettes 

of  affection;  suddenly  one  day  you  find 
it  turned  hard  and  cold — it  has  hurt  you. 
If  one  you  loved,  who  had  always  been 
kind  and  true,  should  one  day  strike  you, 
would  it  be  easy  to  say  at  once  to  an 
other,  "  Yes,  he  struck  me;  he  has  become 
unkind?"  or  would  you  not  excuse  or 
evade  it,  as  Zan  did  in  her  sweet  equivo 
cation,  "I  guess  'twas  just  a  stone?"  I 
was  more  real  to  her  than  any  human  be 
ing  had  ever  been,  but  I  was  not  half  as 
real,  half  as  vital,  to  her  as  her  earth.  I 
was  not  so  good  to  her,  nor  did  I  love  her 
as  well.  I  could  never  have  hurt  her  by 
any  act  of  mine  as  that  bit  of  frozen 
ground  had  been  able  to  do.  Her  world 
was  changing  so  fast  now;  nothing  was 
left  that  she  cared  for,  the  last  twig  was 
bare,  the  last  rivulet  frozen,  the  last  in 
sect  hidden,  the  whole  earth  was  bitterly 
repellent.  And  now  there  was  falling  this 
strange  white  snow,  slowly  but  certainly 
burying  the  world. 

Her  imagination  had  been  fired  over 
the  fancy  of  what  it  would  be,  but  this 
long  realization,  this  unvarying  weird 
monotony  of  whiteness,  numbed  her  with 
an  unspeakable  fear. 

It  had  snowed  for  three  days,  but  the 
next  morning  was  bright  and  clear. 
When  I  came  down,  Zan  was  at  her  place 


Zan  Zoo  283 

by  the  window  again;  the  expression  of 
interest  that  was  on  her  face  during  the 
snowfall  was  gone,  and  a  strangely  sol 
emn  look  in  its  place. 

"  Well,  Zan  ?"  I  greeted  her. 

She  started  to  speak,  but  the  words 
would  not  come.  I  saw  she  was  sadly 
unhappy,  and  tried  to  divert  her.  If  I 
had  known  then  what  I  learned  after 
ward — that  the  brave  little  heart,  which 
had  never  feared  a  living  thing,  was 
stricken  with  terror  at  the  sight  of  the 
whole  world  dead,  and  the  thought  that 
she  should  never  feel  again  the  soft 
earth  under  her,  or  hear  the  birds  sing, 
or  see  the  bushes*  blossoms — I  might 
have  cheered  the  child,  might  have  taken 
her  away  from  the  dreary  expanse  of 
whiteness  and  coldness.  What  was  life 
to  her  now?  Would  she  not  a  hundred 
times  rather  have  been  beaten  by  Mrs. 
Beer  among  her  dear  living  surround 
ings,  and  would  she  not  have  been  the 
happier,  too? 

Day  after  day  she  must  have  watched 
through  those  long  winter  months  to  see 
if  the  earth  would  come  to  life  again,  and 
perhaps  hoped  a  little  as  she  watched. 
But  at  last  the  little  ray  of  hope  must 
have  gone,  for  each  day  seemed  colder 
and  the  wind  bleaker  than  ever  before. 


284  Harper's  Novelettes 

I  remember  one  morning,  when  Zan's 
shadowy  bit  of  a  figure  stood  at  the  door, 
there  were  two  little  snow-sparrows  lying 
lifeless  outside. 

"  Poor  birdies,"  I  said.  "  It  was  such 
a  cold  night  for  them.  We  can't  even 
bury  them,  can  we?" 

She  looked  pale  and  frightened,  but  I 
did  not  divine  the  reason.  I  prided  my 
self  on  knowing  what  the  little  thing 
felt.  Yet  how  stupid  I  was  never  to  have 
suspected  that  she  was  picturing  us  as 
soon  lying  frozen  like  the  dead  sparrows 
on  the  snow!  that  her  heart  was  saying, 
"Everything  is  dying!"  I  cannot  help 
blaming  myself  that  I  never  talked  to 
her  of  our  spring  and  summer;  that  I 
was  the  great  selfish  bachelor  I  was  in 
stead  of  a  creature  that  could  have  felt 
and  seen  more  of  what  was  in  a  life  so 
near  him. 

She  still  grew  thinner  and  weaker  day 
after  day,  till  at  last  she  just  lay  in  her 
bed  and  watched  the  dead  world  from 
there. 

It  must  have  been  to  her  a  terrible 
never-ending  funeral.  The  first  I  came 
to  know  of  this  feeling  that  possessed 
her  was  only  a  few  days  before  she  died. 
The  doctor  had  not  been  in  for  some 
days,  as  there  was  nothing  he  could  do 


Zan  Zoo  285 

for  her.  The  child  had  no  disease  what 
ever,  yet  we  had  given  up  all  hope  of 
keeping  her  much  longer.  She  seldom 
spoke  now.  I  watched  her  eyes  as  they 
kept  wandering  toward  the  window — it 
was  snowing — a  sign  of  late  for  her  to 
grow  worse  more  rapidly.  She  turned 
her  eyes  from  the  window  to  me,  and 
asked,  in  her  soft,  weak  voice, 

"Are  they  all  dead  but  you?"  I 
thought  she  was  wandering,  but  she  kept 
those  great  solemn  eyes  on  me  and  con 
tinued:  "You'll  be  dead  soon,  won't 
you?  It's  gettin'  colder,  and  the  snow's 
gettin'  deeper.  It's  long  off  since  the 
ground  died,  and  then  the  birds,  and  the 
doctor  is  dead.  Molly  said  the  hens  had 
frozen.  Molly's  froze  now,  ain't  she?" 
The  light  touch  of  the  wee,  wee  hand 
that  weakly  crept  into  mine  thrills  me. 
"I  hope  you  won't  freeze  yet,  not  till 
after—" 

What  could  I  say  then?  I  know  that 
I  tried  to  talk  of  birds,  of  flowers,  of  sun 
shine  and  summer,  but  I  know  my  voice 
choked  me.  I  sent  out  for  dogs,  cats, 
birds,  children.  I  kept  my  horse  stand 
ing  in  front  of  her  window.  I  sent  to 
the  city  for  flowers.  I  cursed  myself 
that  I  had  not  been  born  a  woman,  or 
with  a  woman's  sense.  To  have  let  her 


286  Harper's  Novelettes 

die  by  inches  without  a  vestige  of  life  or 
brightness  about  her,  all  the  time  com 
placently  flattering  myself  that  I,  her 
savior,  her  rescuer,  embodied  all  earthly 
happiness  for  her!  But  my  enlighten 
ment  came  all  too  late.  The  wee  spark 
of  life  could  not  be  fanned  into  a  flame. 
A  few  mornings  later  little  Zan  Zoo  be 
came  as  still  as  the  sparrows.  Just  a 
closing  forever  of  those  big  dark  eyes 
and  the  faint  bit  of  breath  stopped. 

Call  it  what  you  like.  A  foolish  sen 
timent?  Perhaps.  But  I  shall  never 
regret  the  long  journey  I  took  to  lay  the 
little  Caffre  girl  on  the  veld  she  loved 
so  dearly.  I  could  not  find  the  spot  again 
where  I  laid  her.  I  wanted  no  curious 
eyes  to  stare  at  her  resting-place.  The 
sugar-birds  and  the  toads  and  the  doves 
will  find  her,  and  the  spring-bok  will  stop 
in  his  flight  as  he  nears  her;  the  warm 
earth  will  guard  her.  No  hope  lies  nearer 
my  heart  than  that  now,  somehow,  some 
where,  Zan  Zoo  is  happy. 


THE  END 


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